


Lucky Break

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Aftermath of Torture, Bathing/Washing, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Cabins, Cap_Ironman Reverse Bang Challenge 2015, Comfort, Comfort Food, Community: cap_ironman, Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Derogatory Language, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Steve Rogers, Established Relationship, Feelings, Food, Guilt, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt Tony, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mentions of the Holocaust, Minor Original Character(s), New Avengers Vol. 1 (2004), No Sex, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Nudity, Original Character(s), Original Female Character - Freeform, Original Male Character - Freeform, Protective Steve Rogers, Rape/Non-con Elements, Relationship Issues, Sexist Language, Sexual Assault, Sleepy Cuddles, Slurs, Steve Rogers Feels, Super Soldier Serum, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Violence, slut shaming language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 71,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Tony haven't been together long--they just started dating after putting the team back together in the form of the New Avengers.  When the Red Skull finds out about their relationship, though, he takes it personally.  Aiming to make an example of them and insulted by Steve taking up with a man, he takes them prisoner, and proceeds to try and break them.  It doesn't exactly go as planned.  Set directly after the beginning of the first (2004) New Avengers series and the formation of the new team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Break

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story for [shaliara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaliara)'s ([tumblr](http://shaliara.tumblr.com/)) [artwork](http://shaliara.tumblr.com/post/120879021924/lucky-break-by-sakuratsukikage-captain-america) for the 2015 Captain America/Iron Man Reverse Big Bang. It was a great experience working with her, and I feel lucky to have been paired up with such a great artist and great partner to work alongside!
> 
> Thank you to [Chrism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrism) and [KaeKae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KaeKae) for betaing, reading it over, and constant encouragement, and [Pandabomb](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandabomb) for the last minute beta!

Steve didn’t often dwell on the fact that the serum had enhanced his hearing along with everything else. He wasn’t sure he even really remembered how it had been before his ears were sharp to every change in the world around him, the heartbeats of people standing feet away, when his hearing hadn’t helped to give him a constant awareness of his surroundings.

 

Right now, though—right now, he was dwelling on it. He was focusing on it. Nothing in the world felt quite as important as Tony’s heartbeat, the ragged but even _thump thump thump_ of his pulse, even through the sound system that enabled Steve to hear into the other room.  There was blood dripping from Tony’s split lip, and he made little gasped, huffed, aching sounds of pain, grunting as they worked him over the way they had Steve. Tony’s head was slammed back against the unforgiving metal wall, then down against the floor, so that he roughly fell to his knees, his arms yanked up behind him by the lack of give in the chain that held them bound to the wall.  He had his eyes squeezed shut and he was breathing heavily; Steve could hear that too, as if trying to prepare himself, and Steve could practically feel the strain in him as he tried to keep his body loose, roll with each hit as it came. His mind suddenly went back to practicing with Tony in the gym of the mansion, Tony laughing ruefully at himself and pushing himself up on his elbows, gasping for breath, as he landed on his back yet again, Steve kneeling by his side, “Got the wind knocked outta ya?” and Tony’s sheepish nod.  “Sorry about that,” he’d told him, “let me teach you how to take a punch first.”

 

 _I know how_ , Tony had said, and Steve had grinned back at him and said, _not if you’re falling like that_.

 

That was how Tony was holding himself now, or trying his hardest to; the way Steve had taught him.  And every time a fist slammed into Tony’s body, and he grunted a little, swayed, let himself move with it, Steve felt a twisting, sick roil of pride in his stomach, felt a little warmer, even as the aching chill at what they were doing to Tony settled into him all the more heavily.

 

God, he wished it was him over there. He’d have done anything to be the one they were beating on right now.

 

But it was already obvious that that wasn’t how this was going to work.  And Steve had known that, with a nauseating kind of certainty, from the beginning. Skull knew him too well. He knew better than to make Steve the physical target, not when he had a better, more vulnerable option. Sure, they’d already worked Steve over, enough that his whole body ached, still, especially in his shoulders, the way his arms were hitched up behind him, and there was blood dripping into his eyes.  And he was sure there’d be more in the future, but that was more of a formality, really.

 

It wasn’t like what they were doing to Tony right now, right in front of him.  Even as he watched, they grabbed Tony’s drooping head by the hair, pulled it back up, baring his throat, and Steve felt his own heart rate quicken. What were they going to do to him—what next—

 

The chief bullyboy, the biggest, slammed his fist into the side of Tony’s face, knocking his head to one side. Tony made one of the first loudly involuntary, pained noises Steve had heard from him, and the man grabbed his chin, pulled his head back until Tony was facing him again, then slapped his head to the side again, open hand now over the same spot. The sound was loud, and Tony’s head snapped to the side.  The man pulled his head back immediately by that handful of his hair and Steve could see that Tony’s eyes weren’t focusing; he stared up at the man blearily, eyes huge and dilated. 

 

 _Close your eyes,_ Steve urged silently, in his own head, teeth digging into the inside of his own cheek with his tension, _close your eyes, Tony,_ and just in time, Tony’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes squeezing down against his battered cheeks, right before the man hit him with his fist again.

 

“So, how much more can you take?” the man sneered, and Tony groaned, his lashes fluttering as his head lolled to the side despite the rough hold the man still had on his hair.  The sound was being piped into Steve’s cell, of course, but Steve was under no illusions that his own calls to Tony were anything Tony could hear—he’d been screaming at them since they started this, calling out to Tony, to try to support him, he’d screamed himself hoarse, and there hadn’t been a single response. Just the unbreakable soundproof glass between him and them.  It wasn’t even one way, to spare Tony the knowledge that Steve had witnessed this. No, he could see Steve just fine; Steve had seen his eyes focusing on him through the glass. They wanted him to know that Steve was watching, to not be able to forget it, and Steve was afraid—so afraid—that that was one of the reasons Tony was keeping his head down, as if in shame, not looking up.  “Not as much as Cap, I’ll bet,” the main continued, contemptuously bringing his foot up and slamming his steel shod toes into Tony’s stomach.  He gasped painfully and folded over the kick, but the hand in his hair kept his head up.  It wrenched his head horribly; Steve could see it, but part of him was glad of it, a full fall forward would have done something terrible to Tony’s shoulders, with his arms strung up behind him like that.  “We all know you’re soft, Stark.  Just a rich boy playing at being a superhero.”  Tony panted quietly for breath, tongue passing over his bottom lip, playing over the broken place at the side of his mouth, but he didn’t respond, eyes still shut, didn’t even flinch.  That seemed to annoy the thugs around him.  “Well, guess what?” the man demanded.

 

“Thrill me,” Tony muttered, Steve could hear it, and he half wanted to laugh, half hysterical, at the joy that rose in him at hearing Tony talk back like that, at the same time he wanted to yell at Tony to be _quiet_ , not to antagonize them.

 

The man slammed his boot into Tony’s gut again, and Tony lurched forward on a little breathless groan, head bobbing in midair where he was being held up, chin jerking painfully in the air as it did. “Talk back to me again and it’ll be your balls,” the man growled, and Steve winced, only to be surprised when Tony lifted his head up just slightly and met Steve’s eyes through the glass for almost the first time.  He rolled his eyes, very deliberately, and Steve quickly schooled his face into an answering grin, as reassuring as he could make it.  Tony’s mouth quirked up in answer, his eyes warming, and he raised his eyebrows, as if to ask, _can you believe this guy?_ before he ducked his head down again.

 

Steve swallowed, letting it moisten his dry throat, and took a deep breath.  Tony was going to be all right—he was going to be all right.  He was.  They were going to get through this just fine; it was just a bit of rough handling, Tony had had worse and he was going to be all right.  Steve was—he was overreacting, that was it.

 

“Like I’ve never heard that one before,” Tony wheezed, and the man hauled back and slammed his foot up between Tony’s legs. Tony groaned, whimpered, folded down, his face twisting visibly, but he didn’t crumple, his shoulders squaring back up. “Following through on your threats doesn’t make you any more original,” he panted, voice hoarse and dragging, and twinging with a high-pitched breathlessness, but still audible.

 

“Mouth off all you want, Stark,” the man growled. “It isn’t going to get you out of this. For every time we rough up your _boyfriend_ , you get twice as much. Those are the rules. The more we get the tough guy routine from him, the worse it gets for you.”  He sneered down at Tony, who was already wavering on his knees, peering up at him with unfocused eyes.  “And you’re not a tough guy, are you?” the man crooned in a parody of sweetness.

 

Steve felt sick to his stomach. He would have put his head down, but he owed Tony better than that.  He blinked the sting out of his eyes, shaking his head to shake off sweat and blood and whatever else was dripping downward into them, and swallowed hard.

 

He knew it was just a game, a play to make him feel guilty, and they’d be beating on Tony anyway, but damn if it wasn’t working. Maybe if he were less strong, if he were less able to _take it_ , they’d be beating on him instead.  If he could just—if he could just find some way to convince them—

 

Ugh, stop it, Rogers.  That train of thought was stupid, playing right into their games. They wanted him thinking like that. He couldn’t let himself just play along. He knew that.  What was more, _Tony_ knew that.  He wouldn’t want him thinking like that.  He’d tell Steve not to listen, that they were just trying to get in his head—

 

“It’s not true, Steve,” Tony gritted out, as he was pulled up by rough hands on his shoulders, forced to stretch out even as he groaned and shook and wobbled on his feet, until his belly was wide open and vulnerable and pushed out by the way they were forcing his head back, forcibly arching his back to put his most vulnerable places on display before the man sank his fists into his vulnerable, exposed belly, again and again. Tony grunted, gasped, bit his lip, then groaned out words between the blows, even as they were mostly replaced with stricken, wheezing breaths.  “They’d be—d-doing this to me anyway.  You know they would.  They—” he was struck again, again, and then they let him fall to his knees, heavily, forced his head down, drove a fist into his kidneys.  Tony’s voice became breathy, raspy, groaning, “they’re just t-trying to get to you.”

 

“I know,” Steve whispered, though he knew Tony couldn’t hear him.  His throat hurt. “I know.”  His stomach ached in sympathy.

 

“Shut up, Stark,” the man said, and threw him back against the wall, so hard Steve could hear the hard thunk of Tony’s head, could see how his own body smashed hard into his arms bound behind him, against the wall, heard Tony cry out before he saw him grit his teeth and go silent. “I told you, the more you mouth off, the worst it’s going to get for you.  And do you really want your boyfriend to see that?”

 

Tony gritted his teeth and stared off into the middle distance, over the thug’s shoulder.  He didn’t look at Steve, and he didn’t respond. 

 

The thug hit him again.

 

Steve listened to the beat of Tony’s heart, counted the beats, listened to his breathing.  Tony’s heart was still beating, just as strong, still even. Everything would be fine.

 

He told himself that again.  Everything would be fine.  They just had to find a way out of this.

 

\-----

 

“Tony,” Steve said instantly, as soon as they dragged Tony back into the cell across from him.  He couldn’t resist fighting the chains around his arms, the shackles at his wrists and ankles, even though he’d already tested them what must have been a hundred times and found no give, not even where they were attached to the wall. But Tony was across the room from him, blood dripping from his nose and mouth, so that Steve could smell it, and his feet weren’t even under him; he wasn’t holding himself up, his head lolling, drooping loose on his neck between his shoulders. He was damp with sweat and breathing unsteadily.  “Tony, are you—” no, stupid question “—Tony, it’s all right, I’m here.  I’m here.  It’s going to be fine.  You did fine, you—you did just great.”

 

“Hey, thanks, Cap,” Tony slurred, and Steve could see him grinning at him, his wink, even with his face battered and starting to show signs of swelling, even as the thugs pushed him into the wall opposite Steve and dragged his arms up, beside the glass set into it in a kind of window that now led into an empty room, with just a few splashes of blood across the concrete to let on what they’d done in there just moments before.

 

“Quit it,” Steve snapped before he thought, “let him have his arms behind him, you pigs.”

 

The thugs laughed.  “You don’t get to give us orders, bossy,” one of them chuckled. They tugged Tony’s arms up even higher, forced him onto the balls of his feet, and Steve could hear the way Tony’s breath whimpered in his throat, quiet as it was, even as he set his jaw and clenched his mouth shut to hide it, could hear his heart beating faster from the strain.

 

“Show a little humanity,” Steve spat, tugging on the chains again.  “Just—stop it. Let him stand on his feet.” They laughed, and Tony groaned as his arms were strung up over his head, manacles clasped around them. His feet were already wobbling on the floor.  “I’m _warning_ you,” Steve bit out.

 

“Or what?” the talkative thug drawled, the same one who had taken charge when they were working Tony over.  He ran a rough hand through Tony’s hair, rocking him back against the wall with some force, then turned toward Steve.  “I don’t think you’re in a position to be threatening us, _Captain_.” He was grinning, stepped forward, slid his hand into Steve’s hair this time and jerked his head back. Steve set his jaw and glared up at him. “Are you?”

 

“I’ve dealt with a lot more intimidating in my time than you, son,” Steve told him, setting his jaw and lifting his chin. He spared a glance for Tony out of the corner of his eye—the manacles were firmly around his wrists now. Tony gasped in surprise, bit his lip on a groan as one of the others hoisted him up, off the floor, slid his hands along under his rear.  Tony tilted his head back against the wall and looked at the ceiling. “Let him go,” Steve said, trying to keep his voice even, calm, low.  “Let him go.”

 

The man holding Steve’s hair let go of him and slapped him open-handed.  It was hard enough that Steve felt his head rock back, though not by much, as he put as much effort as he could into holding his head steady, flexing the muscles in his neck. “Quit it with the orders, Rogers,” he said, and hit him again.  But all Steve could think about was the man holding Tony up, off the floor, crowding into his space as he rubbed at his rear with both hands, leering at him. Tony wanted to struggle, Steve could see it in his face, but he looked up at his hands, then down again, and stayed still, taking deep, slow breaths.

 

“You sure do got a sweet little ass,” the man rumbled, and Tony made a face, his features twisting.  “Are you the one who takes it?”  He dragged Tony in, forced their groins together, rolled his hips forward with disgusting intent.  Tony swallowed and kept staring up at the ceiling.  “I bet you are,” he crooned, grinding his groin into Tony’s, leaning in and biting at his neck, licking along the vulnerable flesh there, “I bet he gives it to you hard.”

 

Steve knew he couldn’t react, couldn’t give them more reason to do this to Tony to get to him, but he couldn’t help the furious heat that washed up over his face, making his bruises and cuts throb. He could curse his fair skin all he wanted, but he knew he was a dull red with fury, panting with it, and that they all could see it.  He could feel the muscles in his jaw bunching, his throat flexing, and dropped his head, squeezed his eyes shut, to spare Tony the knowledge that he was watching them sexually assault him, to hide his reaction as best he could, turned his face away.

 

The man standing in front of Steve leaned in, close enough he could feel his breath, sliding his hand up over Steve’s face, over his forehead and back into his hair.  He patted the top of his head, like he might for a dog. “You don’t like that much, do you?” he murmured, laughter in his voice, quietly over Steve’s ear.

 

Steve gritted his teeth.  He could still hear the other man talking to Tony, the laughter. He kept his eyes shut tight. Tony yelped, audibly, and he swallowed. “Pinch that ass,” one of the others crowed.

 

“Sweet round little ass,” the one holding Tony panted. There was the sound of a slap. “Look at that jiggle. I bet your boyfriend is an ass man, isn’t he?  Are you sure you’re a superhero?  How many cheeseburgers you eat to get thighs like that, huh?  Or does he like you all soft and fuckable?  Is that why you’re skipping the workout?”

 

Tony didn’t respond.  Good.  There was no reason he should have to respond to that.  Steve panted with anger, squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. It was ridiculous. Tony wasn’t soft at all. And if he did have a little softness on him over the muscle, that was a good thing.  He needed to eat more than he did already. They were just mocking him, and—saying those things to him—Steve did like the softness in Tony’s buttocks and thighs, under his hands, the beautiful fullness of them, it was nothing to be _ashamed_ of, and Tony worked out enough to keep up with any of them.

 

The man holding Steve tightened his fingers in his hair and leaned in.  “Or does he top you?” he asked.  “The great Captain America, on his back with his legs in the air.  I dunno, I can see it.”

 

Steve ground his teeth and didn’t respond. These men were the sort who believed putting your dick in something or someone made you more of a man. There was no reason to justify anything to them.  To say anything at all.

 

The man hauled back, Steve could hear it, so he was ready for the fist in his gut.  It still hurt, still squeezed the air out of him, since he could only move with it so far, but it was easy to bear.  Compared to listening to Tony being pawed over, he’d take a punch a thousand times. The man kneed him in the same place, in the gut, a moment later, yanked his head to one side and hit him again, slammed his head back against the wall and pummeled his stomach with his fists. Steve kept his eyes closed and moved with it, letting the man hit him until he could hear his ragged breathing, smell the sweat dripping off him.  Finally he dropped Steve’s head and moved back.  Steve let his head hang down between his shoulders rather than fighting to keep it up.  It would be easier that way.  Let the man think he had won for now. 

 

He just wanted a chance to get a look at Tony without them in the room, watching his every move.  Well, he really wanted to touch him, to run his fingers over his face and smooth his hands down his back and hold him close. But that could wait. He’d wait for that.

 

“You got Stark’s shoes off yet?” the man panted, and he heard an affirmative.

 

“Then stop feeling him up and get him locked up the way the boss wants.”

 

“Awww,” the man said, a laughing acknowledgment. Tony grunted, and Steve looked back up at him.  His feet were bare, now, and another of the thugs held his shoes and socks as the man holding him set him down roughly after one last lewd, kneading squeeze of his buttocks. Tony wobbled, hissed from between his teeth as he nearly fell and tugged badly on his bound arms.

 

“You’ve got it, Avenger,” Steve said immediately. Tony looked up at him, panting, eyes dazed, and took in a deep breath, catching himself against the wall and setting his feet, even as his ankles twisted and his feet slid on the floor, but he was doing it, steadying himself.  “That’s it.  Get your feet under you. Look at me, just look at me.” He could hear Tony’s heart pounding in his own ears.  “Just take a deep breath,” he murmured, and he could see Tony nod, shortly, take a deep breath, eyes sliding half closed.

 

“Aww, isn’t that sweet,” one of the thugs sneered. One of them shoved a fist into Tony’s stomach, and Steve felt a sick lurch of guilt—his fault, he never should have said anything, he shouldn’t have opened Tony up to that by speaking to him, trying to help him—Tony was gasping, heaving for breath, swinging on his arms as his feet slipped, wrenching at the manacles fastening his ankles against the wall as well as at his shoulders.  Another of them turned to Steve, punched him almost casually across the face.  He welcomed it, closed his eyes and let himself feel it, the explosion of pain along his cheekbone, across his face.  It was only fair; if Tony had to suffer like this, he should too.  It made him feel better, in a twisted sort of way. 

 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” another of the men added, while Tony still fought for his footing, grunting uncomfortably as his shoulders were tugged by his bound hands.  “We’ll be back before too long.  So no need to get lonely for us.”

 

“I can’t wait,” Tony grunted, and Steve bit his lip against an unwilling smile.  He did love Tony and his smart mouth, even if it was reckless, even if Tony shouldn’t be setting them off, even as worry twisted in his gut over him mouthing off again.

 

“Me neither,” one of them purred and patted his cheek, and this time Tony did jerk his face away, violently. The man just laughed and brought his hand forward again to rub his knuckles along Tony’s cheek and jaw while he held still and his jaw twitched, his body tight with tension, then ruffled his hair and followed the others out of the room.

 

Steve took a deep breath and blew it out, steadying himself, forcing himself to let it out evenly.  Then he opened his eyes and looked up at Tony. “You all right?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even, calm and low.  It worked surprisingly well, considering the anger welling up in his chest, making his muscles jump, burning in his chest and his stomach and still making his face and the back of his neck feel hot.

 

Tony blew his own breath out, worked the balls of his feet against the floor until he was finally balanced, leaning his head back against the wall for a moment, then bringing it back down, looking at Steve evenly across the room.  “I’m just fine, honey,” he said, voice rasping and rough, but just as quiet and even as Steve’s had been.

 

“You’re not,” Steve said.

 

“Okay, _boss_ ,” Tony said, hoarse voice hitching and clearly painful, but just as obviously thickly sardonic.  “Telling me how I’m doing now?”

 

“They really worked you over,” Steve said, his voice sticking in his throat.  His throat still hurt.

 

“And they’ll be back for more,” Tony breathed. His eyes were dilated and swollen, but so soft, all the same, warm where they met Steve’s. “I can take it, cherry pie.”

 

“That’s not the point,” Steve said, frustrated, but trying not to be.  He turned his head, blowing his breath out again.  “They’re hurting you because it upsets me,” he finally said, heavily. “And they’re going to do more, if they can.  And—”

 

“Steve,” Tony said, and even though his voice was still unsteady and hoarse and rough, it was oddly gentle, “the Red Skull isn’t my biggest fan anyway.  It’s not like they’d be rolling out the silk sheets and caviar if it was just me they’d gotten their grabby little hands on.”

 

“They wouldn’t be hurting you like this,” Steve said, aching down to his bones, it felt like.  He made himself look at Tony, the way he had to stand, braced on the balls of his feet so that his arms wouldn’t be tugged down painfully over his head. That would start to be agony, that position alone, in what would feel like no time at all.  Tony’s lips were split, the side of his mouth a cracked, bleeding bruise oozing blood downwards into his beard.  His face was more a bloodied mess just now than swollen, but the bruises would start to darken and puff up soon enough.  Sweaty hair hung down in his eyes and Steve could smell the tang of exhausted sweat all over him, scuffed and dirty, his collared shirt and expensive slacks ripped and torn.  He was shaking, visibly, his jaw clamped down tight, and swaying slightly against the wall, his skin gone pale under his tan, and Steve could see his bare toes curling and trying to grip against the concrete floor. It was wet under them, and slick, and Steve had to wonder if that was by design, to make it worse for him. He could feel his own fists tightening, knuckles practically creaking under the pressure, and worked his jaw.

 

Tony sighed and tilted his head back against the wall again, looking at Steve through his eyelashes.  It was a sweet, flirty, seductive move most of the time, almost coquettish, and he did it with Steve a lot.  It looked strange on his battered face now. “The Skull is a sadist, sugar cookie,” he sighed.  “And I don’t doubt word’s gotten around about my liaisons with men long before now. You don’t think he’d enjoy making a mess of me on his own time?”  He licked at the wound at the corner of his mouth and made a face.

 

Steve sighed and fought the chains again. “It’s still my fault,” he told Tony. “He took you because you’re my—my boyfriend.” He wasn’t sure what to call Tony. Boyfriend sounded bizarre. But it was—it was what he was. It just didn’t seem to capture their relationship at all, somehow.

 

“And if I wasn’t, he’d have taken me because I’m your friend.  And if not friend, then teammate.”  Tony’s scratchy voice was inexorable, calm, even soothing.  “This train of thought doesn’t work, Steve.  You can’t be nobly alone forever.  Believe me.”  He gave a wry little smile.  “I should know. I’ve tried it. Trust an expert. They’ll just grab some random person off the street and use them, then.  The risk of caring.  It’s our weakness, and they know it.”  He sighed as if exhausted, tilted his head back, and let his eyes slide closed completely.

 

“Tony,” Steve snapped, hotly, suddenly angry. “It is not a weakness.”

 

“I didn’t say we should stop,” Tony said quietly, not opening his eyes.  “But they’ll use it against us.  They always will. We have morals, we care about people, and they don’t.  It’s just something . . . we should be aware of.”  He shifted, gave a low groan, shifting his shoulders, and sighed.  “You know that.  I’m not trying to start a moral debate here, sweetheart.”

 

Steve felt a hot surge of guilt, rising up in his throat, closing it off.  What was he doing snapping at Tony?  He knew better than to think Tony meant they should _stop_. He was being ridiculous, and when Tony was hurt, and they were in a seriously less than ideal situation. Steve was already letting Skull get him off balance, and he didn’t know what was wrong with him. He knew better than that.

 

It just . . . it felt like he was always doing this. Always getting the people he loved hurt, or tortured, or captured along with him, and then they would hurt, they would suffer, and he wouldn’t.  He would just get through it, go on ahead, go on, while everyone around him suffered for who he was.  It had happened before, with Bucky.  Steve could still see him, gasping, panting hard, sweat soaking his hair, trying so hard not to scream as Zemo worked him over.  And—and he’d never had a chance to try and make it up to him.  He’d died, right after that.  And Tony, Tony was—Tony was Shellhead, his teammate, and Steve knew he could handle himself, could more than handle himself, but he was also his sweetheart, now, his best guy, and Steve didn’t want to see him brutalized just because the Red Skull had his pants permanently twisted up and thought two fellas bumping uglies was wrong when he was the one who was sick. Like what had happened with Arnie. And Michael.  More innocent people, people who had suffered just because they’d known Steve, been friendly with him.  “We’re going to get out of this,” he told Tony, reminding himself at the same time.

 

“Shhh,” Tony murmured.  “Being monitored, gorgeous.”  He let his head tilt to one side, sagging down toward his shoulder, and Steve looked automatically in the direction of his movement to see the tiny microphone set into the wall.  “It’s a rudimentary setup at best,” Tony said, even more quietly, barely moving his lips now, letting the words flow and slur softly together, “I figure they haven’t been using this place long.  But it’s enough to do the trick.”

 

“I know the drill,” Steve snapped. “I’m not about to spill my guts to anyone who’s listening.  I’ve been around the block before, Iron Man.”

 

“I know,” Tony said softly, breathing out slow and easy through his parted lips.  Steve watched the sluggish ooze of blood along the side of his mouth, the barest hint of a bruise just under his lip starting to show.  His eyes were still closed.  “I know, champ. I’m just telling you.”

 

Steve sighed.  He’d bitten Tony’s head off.  Again. He had to get better control over himself.  He didn’t want to make things even worse for Tony, and he was, snapping at him like this. Like any of this was his fault. “I’m sorry, buddy,” he said, forcing himself to look at Tony straight on, even if Tony wasn’t looking back. “I need to get better control over myself.”

 

Tony smiled a little bit at that, even though it made the slowly forming crust on the corner of his mouth crack and break again. “I’m not saying that would hurt,” he said.  “Might be a good idea for what’s coming.”

 

Steve blew his breath out again and tested the chains at his wrists.  He must have tested them a hundred, two hundred times by now and still come up with nothing, but there had to be a way to get out of this somehow.  He just hadn’t hit on it yet, but he wouldn’t find it if he didn’t keep trying.  “The important thing,” he said, and he still wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Tony or himself, “is that we’ll be together, every step of the way.  I’m right here with you.”

 

Tony’s smile got a little wider, softer and more real at that, and his eyes slid back open.  Steve could see the black film that covered them when he used Extremis flick back and away over them at the same time—but this wasn’t the time to ask what he’d been doing in his head.  The Skull and his cronies might not even know about Extremis, or what it meant for Tony’s capabilities these days.  However Steve felt about it and the changes to Tony’s body, it might be the one advantage they needed to get them out of this that much quicker, he wasn’t going to deny that.  “Always, Cap,” he said, eyes warm and sincere.  “Together. Right here.”

 

Steve smiled back, tremulous and strained as it was, couldn’t help it, with that look in Tony’s eyes. “No matter what happens,” he told him. “You and me.”

 

Tony smiled a little more, even softer, almost dreamy, and his eyes crinkled up just a little.  “You always say the sweetest things,” he said, hoarse voice gone soft and husky. He smiled a little more. “You’re not worried about declarations of love pushing Skull even further over the edge here?”

 

Steve tilted his head back, looked right up at the microphone.  “I’m not worried about him at all,” he said.  “He’s just a coward and a bully.”

 

It wasn’t precisely the truth—he was worried about what Skull might try to do to Tony, how badly he might manage to hurt him before they escaped from this.  But that wasn’t the point.  That wasn’t why he said it.

 

“That’s my Cap,” Tony said, still smiling that soft, almost dreamy smile, sweet and warm.  “You tell ‘im, honey.”

 

Steve turned his attention back to Tony, looking at him from head to toe, the helpless strain of his arms above his head, the way he was shaking already.  He could hear Tony’s heart pounding, smell the coppery tang of blood along with his sweat. “Listen,” he said, “how bad is it?”

 

“Not bad,” Tony said, smiling wearily. “Nothing that some Neosporin and a few bandaids won’t cure later.  Just hurts like hell at the moment.  That’s the whole point, right?”

 

Steve just wished he could touch him. It felt like that was all he wanted at the moment.  To be able to reach out, brush Tony’s sweaty hair off his forehead, cradle his chin in his palm, run his other hand along the back of his neck, unchain his arms and just hold him to his chest.

 

“It’s going to be all right, Steve,” Tony said, quietly, opening his eyes fully, looking at him straight on.

 

“Of course it is,” Steve agreed, just as quietly, swallowing hard, and pushing down the feelings.  If he didn’t keep it together, they’d never get out of this. He took a deep breath and blew it out.

 

\-----

 

He hadn’t expected that it would take too long after that taunt for the Skull to put in an appearance.  He never could resist.  That was the whole idea, to get him reacting to them as much as they could, rather than thinking, planning.  Might lead to more pain for them in the short term, but an enemy reacting was off his game, was easier to defeat.  Sure enough, it was only a few seconds before the door flew open and Skull swept in. He always tried that dramatic entrance routine.  Steve stared straight at Tony and ignored him completely.  He’d had enough goose-stepping to last a lifetime a long time ago.

 

Tony, though, rolled his head to look at Skull, smirking lazily, a languid curl of his lips like they weren’t split and oozing blood, like he was at someone’s garden party waiting for the cucumber sandwiches to be brought out.  (Or whatever they actually served at garden parties.  Steve didn’t really know.)  “Oh, look, our host finally makes an appearance,” Tony drawled.  “I have to say, I’m disappointed in the accommodations. And room service, well, I’m going to have to file a complaint.”

 

“Ah, yes,” the Skull sneered. “The famous Tony Stark jocularity. I can’t say I’m terribly impressed by your wit.  But I suppose that’s the sort of thing a man like you cares about, isn’t it?”

 

“A billionaire industrialist like me?” Tony asked, face innocent.  “A superhero? I mean, I do expect my accommodations to be up to a certain standard, you’ve got me there, Skull. And this just isn’t making the grade. I can’t say my reviews will be positive.”

 

“You know exactly what I mean,” Skull said, “do not play stupid.  It doesn’t become you.”

 

“Actually, I’ve been spared the knowledge of how your sad, narrow little excuse for a brain works,” Tony answered. “For which I am profoundly gratef—” He broke off on an oof of air as one of Skull’s thugs slammed the butt of his nightstick into his belly, and his head fell forward as he panted, groaning.  Steve wanted to wince, but steeled himself, didn’t let it show. “Grateful,” Tony finished muzzily, shaking his head.

 

Skull ignored him, turning on his heel and approaching Steve.  “And you, Captain,” he started.

 

“Oh, boy,” Steve said, widening his eyes comically. He figured the least he could do was try and pick up where Tony had left off.  “Is it my turn now?”

 

“I have to say, I am disappointed in you,” Skull said.

 

“Honestly, I am, too,” Steve said. “I really had thought I’d killed you a long time ago.”

 

Skull clasped his arms behind his back. “Ah, yes,” he said. “That must be so very disappointing. The knowledge of your constant failure. There is that, too.”

 

“I cry myself to sleep at night,” Steve told him.

 

“In truth,” Skull said, “you have disappointed me. Your heroic efforts were one thing. Only what I have come to expect from Captain America.  But I truly had thought you were above such base perversions.”

 

Tony snorted behind him.  “Spare me,” he said.  One of the thugs hit him again, an open handed slap across the face, hand curled just enough for extra pain.  He took it with barely a sound.  Steve swallowed, could feel his jaw working, but forced it down.  _Don’t show how much it affects you, Rogers._

 

“Yeah,” he said, “the great Captain America _does_ have sex. Sorry to burst your bubble. It’s amazing how widespread that one is.”

 

“That is not the perversion to which I refer,” Skull said.  Steve set his jaw and looked at him stolidly.  He had to admit, there was a certain satisfaction in making him spell it out for them. He could hear Tony breathing heavily, but slowly, behind them.  He was letting his head hang to the side, taking deep breaths.  Steve hoped he was gathering his strength. “But the unnatural nature of your relationship with the dissolute man behind us, and his wanton, immoral depravities, his sinful decadence.  I truly thought you were above such things.  But instead, you have been lying, even to your own public, all this time, presenting yourself as America’s golden boy, the hero, upstanding, unwavering. Pure,” he sneered. “And yet all the while arching into his touch, a desperate, eager, degenerate whore, his filthy mark all over you.”

 

“Wow, do you have sex tapes or something?” Tony murmured from behind him.  “I didn’t know you were so interested.  I’m going to have to tighten security, I guess.”

 

“As if I would debase myself to your level,” Skull snarled, rounding on him.  “Imagination is enough to paint the picture of what unnatural acts the pair of you have perpetrated.”

 

“Nothing more natural than a little sex,” Tony said, and winked at him.  “How much you been _imagining_?” Steve sucked in his breath. _Don’t antagonize him like that,_ he wanted to bark at him, but it wasn’t as if he was one to talk.  He took a deep breath and leaned his head back, trying to steady himself.

 

The Skull hit Tony himself that time. Again.  Twice more.  He didn’t stop until Tony was hanging in his bonds, helplessly, panting, blood dripping from his face, unable to hold himself up with either his feet or his arms. _Be strong_ , Steve thought.  _You can do this, Shellhead. Just shush up for a while. Don’t draw his attention for a bit, baby, you can do it._   He knew Tony would be in for the brunt of all this later, that the Skull would focus on him. Even if Tony hadn’t been the more physically vulnerable and thus in for it, the Skull’s attitude toward him was plenty clear.  Steve just wanted Tony to save his strength.  Save it for that.

 

Tony was gasping, moaning, feet slipping on the floor and failing to find purchase, and the Skull brushed off his hands, removed his gloves as if they were filthy from contact with Tony’s skin, handed them to one of the thugs.  “Destroy these,” he said.

 

Steve gritted his teeth, knew he was flushing bright, hot red with fury again.  If he had been free, he would have punched Skull right in the jaw.  He would have been aiming to break it.  No doubt about it.  “He’s a thousand times the man you are, Skull,” he bit out.

 

“He must be very pleasing in bed, Captain,” Skull said without turning around.

 

“He’s a better man than you’ll ever be,” Steve said. “He’s a hero.  He saves people.  I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.  His nobility.  His bravery. It isn’t the sort of thing someone like you understands.  So of course you’d fixate on something like that.  You’d like to drag him down to your level, wouldn’t you?  But you can’t.  You’ll never be able to.  And I bet that gets under your skin.  What’s left of it. I bet that just _burns_ you up inside.  But there’s nothing you can do about it.”  He was panting, breathless with anger, with the emotion welling up in his throat, choking his breath, but he managed a heavy breath of relief when the Skull turned around to face him again.  He could see Tony’s bare feet still sliding along the floor—he was starting to get them under him again.  Just as long as Skull focused on Steve, maybe Tony could get his breath back. It didn’t really matter if Skull listened to Steve.  He wouldn’t. Like Steve had said, he couldn’t understand it.  He just wanted Skull’s attention on him.  The _words_ were for Tony.  He could only hope he heard them, that it helped.

 

“Like you, he wastes his life in the service of parasites,” the Skull said.  “And like you, Hauptmann, he pollutes their lives with his depravities.  Do you think they would thank him for that?”

 

“I’m not really interested in public opinion,” Steve said.  “We help people because it’s right.”

 

“In this case,” Skull said, “I find I _am_ interested in public opinion.  Is it well known that you are a depraved homosexual? Do the people of your . . . _great_ . . . nation accept this? I feel that even in your depraved country there are some holdouts of morality.”

 

“I’m not,” Steve said.  “Any of those things.  First of all, I don’t identify as homosexual.  As Tony would tell you, we’re bisexual, both of us.  And I don’t know that I’d say I’ve ever done anything depraved. Not like poisoning innocent civilians with a flesh-eating bacteria.  Nothing like that.”

 

“That doesn’t,” Skull said, “answer my question. I did peruse your news media, and I saw nothing about Captain America, what do you people call it . . . ‘coming out.’  I am forced to conclude that it is a secret.  And why should it not be? After all, it is a shameful practice. Just like the shame of your liaison with this man.”

 

“There’s nothing shameful about my relationship with Tony,” Steve said quietly, raising his chin.  Tony licked his lips behind them, head still hanging down, took a deep, quiet breath.

 

“We will test your devotion to that statement,” the Skull said, smiling in that way that made him look like a death’s head. “Quite thoroughly. We will see what it takes to break your commitment to each other.  Unnatural as it is.  I wonder. Are you willing to see him die for you? For your . . . perversity?”

 

“I would die for him,” Steve said evenly. “Any time.  Any day of the week.”

 

The Skull laughed.  “I have no doubt of that,” he said.  “But how do you imagine he would feel if you did?”  He leaned forward, looked Steve straight in the eyes. “We will try to be certain you can imagine it,” he said, “and besides, Captain.  That was not what I asked.  Again.” He turned to one of the thugs standing behind him.  “Inject him,” he said. Instantly, one of the men pulled a syringe out of his pocket, took the few steps over to Tony and pulled his head up by the hair.  Tony looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, blearily, mouth lax and head lolling on his neck. His teeth sank into his bottom lip as the man curled his arm around his head, holding him still with his elbow braced against Tony’s jaw, then sank the syringe deep into his neck.

 

Steve realized he was jerking violently at his own bonds when he felt wet blood on his wrists, and only belatedly felt the sting. He forced himself to still, feeling his fists clenching ever tighter and tighter, the muscles in his wrists bunching as he took a deep, unsteady breath and blew it back out, keeping his eyes fixed on Tony’s face.  The man dropped Tony’s head, and he sagged forward, eyes wide, gasping for breath. The whites of his eyes were showing—he was scared. 

 

Steve swallowed hard, his chest aching. He wished he knew what it had been, but he wasn’t going to ask, not to let them show how frantic he felt right now. That wouldn’t help.

 

Tony bit down harder on his lower lip, his eyes rolling in his head.  He was breathing heavily now.  Steve wondered what he was feeling, if this was a reaction to the injection or just fear. He wished he knew.

 

He wished he could hold him through it.

 

“Oh, don’t worry so much, Captain,” Skull said. “It shouldn’t prove fatal, unless he has an unfortunate reaction to barbiturates, which, I believe, is statistically rare. It’s nothing more than a drug cocktail I’ve used many times before.”

 

Tony took a deep breath in through his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.  His wrists shifted in the manacles, twitching, and he whimpered, almost inaudibly, leaning his head back against the wall.  Steve could hear his heartbeat increasing, thundering against his ribs, the way he was panting. Tony hated drugs. Steve knew that. Especially sedatives. They made him feel like he was drunk, how many times had he said that?  And barbiturates were highly addictive, and Tony would hate that, too, just knowing that, not because one shot would cause dependence, because it wouldn’t, but—he would just hate it, was all.  He would be miserable, scared, he would—Steve took a deep breath. He couldn’t lose his grip now, too. He had to be strong, for Tony. It was all he could do for him right then. Sweat dripped down along the curve of Tony’s neck.  He looked clammy, white-faced, his skin damp.  “’m all right, Steve,” he mumbled, after a moment.

 

“You are,” Steve said, careful to keep his voice strong and reassuring, calm and steady.  “You’ll be just fine.”

 

Tony winced, his head sliding along the wall toward Steve, jerking and slow and dazed.  “Steve,” he grunted breathily, and his tongue slid along his bottom lip, as if he wanted to say more, or he was trying to, about to, but he didn’t, his head just shuddered back and forth, his eyes still closed.  He was breathing heavily, panting, and his head kept twitching, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly over his cheeks that Steve wondered if it was hurting his bruised face, his eyelashes flat and tight against the skin.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, keeping his voice low, as earnest as he could manage.  “Yeah. I’m right here, buddy. Not going anywhere.”

 

“Truly, it’s so very touching,” the Skull drawled. He was watching Tony, his head cocked to one side, as if his panting breaths and wobbling balance were better than the cinema.  Tony gasped a little more, pressing his head back further against the wall, his hands working in the manacles over his head, then hissed out a breath, his wrists jerking, his feet twisting against the slick concrete as if it was difficult for him to stay upright. He groaned, audibly this time.

 

Steve set his teeth and ignored Skull. God, what had they given him? Tony’s head slumped down to the other side, drooping forward, and Steve saw him hiss between his teeth as his wrists shifted in his bonds, then jerk back.  He was still breathing heavily.  Steve chewed on the inside of his own bottom lip.  Tony was obviously struggling to stay on his feet, now, and every time his arms or back twisted or scraped along the wall, he would let out a harsh little breath and his jaw would set, working.  That made sense; he’d basically been sedated. His muscles had to be relaxing, making it harder to hold up his bound arms, or keep his straining feet under him. But what else had they given him? The barbiturates explained Tony’s nodding head, his straining, jerking motions like a parody of drowsiness, as if catching himself and half-waking, and the slack give of his mouth except where he still had his bottom lip caught between his teeth, but it didn’t explain the way he flinched and trembled at each movement, the tension in his body, tightening in his face and along his jaw, his breath quickening as if he was in pain.

 

“I could separate you, of course,” the Skull said. “But in the end, I would rather have you here to witness this.  And know how very helpless you truly are.”

 

“What did you give him?” Steve demanded, as Tony’s foot slid out from under him and he dropped down against the floor before he managed to balance himself, get it under him again.  It pulled horribly on his arms, badly jerked his ankles, the manacles cutting into his skin, Steve could see the wrench, and ached for him, ached to hold him up, but Tony just bit down harder on his bottom lip and fought his way back up, head nodding.  There was a thin trickle of blood making its way down Tony’s neck from where they had stuck him, and his face was freshly damp with sweat.

 

“’m all right, Steve,” Tony mumbled again, this time a little louder than the last, though his voice was rougher, breathier, moistening his lips and then pressing them together. “Shh, shhh, honey.”

 

It wasn’t all right.  There was nothing all right about it.  Steve took a deep breath, feeling his jaw bunching, then forced the reaction down, stared back at Tony.  He could do that much to have his back.

 

“Strike him,” the Skull ordered, and one of the goons obeyed, a backhanded slap across Tony’s face that filled the room with the sound.  Steve was startled when Tony gave a rough, audible sound of pain, one that sounded wrenched out of him, and trembled afterward, his head slumped forward to hang down between his arms as he panted for breath.  The same man hit him again, knocking his head back the other way, and Tony gave another pained, choking noise.  Steve pushed air out of his throat with an effort of will.  Something was clearly affecting Tony, his pain tolerance—something.

 

“What did you _give_ him,” he gritted out between his teeth.  Tony’s feet slipped out from under him again and he jolted back against the wall, falling hard, so that his head thunked against it, and he made a gasping little grunt of pain again, sounding like it was torn out of him. Steve winced, watching as his arms took his weight, the manacles cutting into the flesh of his wrists even as Tony strained and struggled to hold himself up with them, his muscles visibly clumsy and slow.

 

Watching him struggle hurt more than anything they could have ever done to Steve himself.  Skull had read him all too well.  Steve’s stomach hurt.  He felt sick. Tony was making pained little gasps for breath now, hoarse and heavy, and his feet still weren’t under him. His eyes were still squeezed shut, and Steve didn’t know if that were better or worse than being able to see his eyes.

 

“Get the knife,” the Skull said, and Steve jerked reflexively at his own chains again, tugging at them, pulling, pointless as it was; he couldn’t help it.  Tony still didn’t have his feet under him; they were slipping and sliding on the floor, and his gasps were getting louder, with more voice behind them, more pain. A new thug—God, it was the one who had felt Tony up earlier, the sick bastard—moved toward him, and Tony visibly flinched, ducked his head down and panted heavily.  Steve was afraid his arms would be pulled out of his sockets by his own weight, at this point.

 

The goon pulled a knife out from his belt and curled a heavy hand around the back of Tony’s neck, and there was a sharp, low pain in Steve’s chest now, settling into his gut in thick, heavy, knotted ball. He swallowed hard, heavily against it. The man gripped Tony’s hair and the back of his shirt, and hauled him up until his toes, the balls of his feet, were barely scraping the concrete.  At least, Steve thought desperately, that took the weight off Tony’s arms. Tony sucked in a breath, opened his eyes just slightly, slowly, blearily, and looked up at the man through his eyelashes, his eyes focusing on the knife before he blew his breath out, his face twisting and settling into a wryly crooked grimace.  It was almost a smirk, if it hadn’t been so heavy and bitter, almost self-deprecating.

 

“He won’t need his clothes any longer,” the Skull said, then, with a menacing, silky softness, “I’d hold quite still if I were you, Mr. Stark.”  Tony’s jaw worked, but he clenched his hands into fists, and Steve could see his muscles trembling as he held still, just as still as Skull had suggested, as the man holding him sliced off first one of the buttons off his stained, rumpled shirt, then the next. 

 

They were being so slow about it. Taking their goddamn time. Steve clenched and unclenched his fists. How long could Tony stay still enough for this, with his muscles lax and exhausted, fighting him every step of the way?

 

Tony’s jaw worked, and he breathed slowly out through his nose.  His hands trembled, and he groaned, faintly, far back in his throat, barely audible. The man flicked off another button, grinning into his face.  He leaned in a little more, pulling Tony’s head back by the hair, until his face was practically mashed up against Tony’s, his leering grin nearly touching his cheek, against his beard, and Steve saw Tony look at the man out of the corner of his eyes, but his face didn’t change.  He just took a slow breath through his nose and breathed it out through his mouth in increments, barely parting his lips.

 

“I bet you’re enjoying this,” the man murmured in a lewd chuckle, slicing off another button.  “Any excuse to get your clothes off, right, Stark? You gonna spread your legs too? Like you do for the Captain?” Another button, and then another. Tony’s shirt was visibly gapping open now, revealing his sweat-slick, battered chest, covered in angry red marks that Steve was certain would be awful bruising later, all black and purple and swollen up, all over.  “All that talk about respect, you know he won’t ream you the way your slutty ass really needs, no matter how big he is.  An uppity little bitch like you needs to be taken in hand. Shown his place. I bet you know how bad you need it.” Another button followed.

 

Steve knew he shouldn’t react, knew he needed not to, that his responding would only make it worse for Tony. He _knew_ it, but he couldn’t stop himself.  “Get your hands off him,” he spat, straining again, feeling hot all over as a wave of hot rage swept over him, hazing his vision.

 

“Tsk, tsk, Captain,” the Skull said, even as the thug slipped the hand holding the knife into Tony’s shirt, running his hand over Tony’s chest.  Tony flinched; Steve saw it, and despite himself, despite everything, it made him gave a great heave at his own bonds, at the wall, working his arm back and drawing it forward as hard as he could, leading with one shoulder.  It didn’t work; his bonds held fast, and he felt his shoulder strain and twist and ended up panting again, in pain, the chains as unyielding as ever.  Steve’s eyes were stinging again and he blinked it away.  He didn’t think why.

 

“See?” the thug murmured to Tony, flicking one nipple with his thumb, as if he were doing it experimentally. “Boring.”  Tony’s throat worked, but he didn’t respond. Steve’s shoulder throbbed, and his stomach hurt.  He could feel his fists clenching.  If that bastard didn’t take his hands off him, if he didn’t—

 

“You know your whore will be punished for that,” Skull said to Steve, and on cue, the thug flipped the knife in his hand and drove the hilt of it deep, hard into Tony’s belly once, twice.  Tony let his breath out in a hard oof of air and doubled forward, collapsing over it until the manacles around his wrists and the goon’s hand on the back of his neck, in his hair, prevented him from going any further and he swung there, gasping.  He let out an audible whimper, his head twisted down and to one side, his eyes screwing even tighter shut, and Steve’s stomach twisted.  That pain was his fault, his work.  He needed to keep his _mouth shut_.

 

“Oh, but didn’t you like that?” the thug crooned, and struck Tony in the belly again.  Tony’s teeth drove hard into his bottom lip, and he gave a grunted, strangled sort of sound that Steve knew had been a cry of pain before he’d done his best to choke it back.  “So you’re not into pain? I could have sworn, the way you were egging us on back there.  I knew good old Cap was too straight-laced to give it to you hard the way you need.”

 

Tony just groaned again, twisting his head away. He was trembling all over, Steve could see it, his body was slick with cold sweat, and he flinched, as if the man’s voice was too loud.

 

“What did you _give_ him?” he demanded, as he watched Tony continue to tremble, shaking too hard to keep himself still now, groaning on each inward breath, if barely audibly, as the man finished with the last few buttons, the blade of the knife knicking Tony’s heaving belly a few times and making him whimper loudly, almost cry out, head jerking back and the whites of his eyes showing as his eyes flew open each time, huffing audibly through his nose, too quickly, practically hyperventilating before he calmed himself again. “What the hell did you give him?”

 

“You haven’t figured it out by now, Captain?” the Skull said, his eyes fixed on Tony and a small smile curving his lips as the thug pushed his head down, making him gasp and heave out another breath, head falling forward under the rough hand, and proceeded to summarily slice the shirt down the arm to the neck on first one side then the other. “Really.  I thought better of your intelligence.  I suppose your depraved emotions must be clouding your mind.”

 

“Just _tell me_ ,” Steve roared, and then Tony flinched visibly, and it was enough to let the knife sink deeply into his flesh on the meaty base of his neck, where it became his shoulder.  Tony gave a yelping, low, rasping noise of pain and jerked away, his feet kicking as he struggled like a fish on a line against the thug’s hold.

 

“Steve,” he gasped out, in what was barely more than a breath, “Steve—”

 

“Tony, it’s all right, it’s all right, shh,” Steve gasped out breathlessly himself, horrified, “just shhh, easy, easy now—”

 

Tony just moaned in response, his head lolling on his neck, hanging down before him as he gasped, panting.

 

“Getting desperate, are we?” Skull asked. He sounded amused. “Would it truly help, Captain, to know exactly how he is being made to suffer?”  He pressed his hands together, then smiled back in Steve’s direction.  “I think not,” he said. “That is precisely why I will tell you.”

 

Steve snarled at him through his teeth, a heaving, heavy noise that built up behind his teeth, leaving him dizzy, like it was nothing more than pure rage.  “You don’t seem grateful, Captain,” the Skull drawled.  Behind him, the thug let Tony sag back down, and he made a pained, hoarse sound as his arms jerked taut over his head again, forced to take his weight once more.  Steve could see it as he reached up and wrapped the chains around his hands, clenching his palms tight around them, strained, muscles in his biceps and forearms working and bunching, and pulled himself up just enough that he wasn’t dangling with all the pressure on his shoulders, and felt a wave of pride welling up in him so intense it made his breath choke in his throat.  Tony was moaning faintly through his clenched teeth, despite his rigid jaw, eyes closed and head rolling on his neck, as he did it, but that hadn’t stopped him.

 

 _Thataboy_ , Steve thought, but didn’t dare say with Skull standing right there to use it against them.  _Keep the strain off your joints as long as you can_. The longer Tony could keep his weight off his shoulders like that, the longer he kept himself from running the risk of dislocating one or both of them.  Tony’s feet scraped against the floor before he managed to get them set, wobbling under him, but set.  The goon just reached down, unbuckled Tony’s belt and pulled it off, slapping it across Tony’s thighs hard enough to have him making a low, painful noise in the back of his throat and jerking back against the wall, but he didn’t lose his balance or his grip on his chains.  The goon snapped the belt down against Tony’s thighs, lower this time, just above the knee, one more time, hard enough that the sound echoed in the room, and Tony gave a groan that broke, almost whimpered, and tilted his head back, but still didn’t lose his balance, then the goon tossed it aside and grabbed Tony’s pants by the waistband.  Steve bit down, hard, on the inside of his cheek.

 

The Skull was talking again. “A simple combination,” he said, “and yet it is truly efficient when it comes to inflicting maximum suffering. The drugs we gave him are not harmful, in and of themselves.  A fascinating irony, don’t you think?  That such a harmless combination can make things so very difficult for a man.”

 

He sounded so goddamned self-satisfied, so _pleased_ with himself. Steve took a deep breath, pushed it out through his nose, but he couldn’t help the way his fists worked in their bonds.  He wanted to punch Skull in his self-satisfied face so badly he could taste it in the back of his throat.

 

Skull’s bullyboy was leering at Tony again, sliding the knife along the waistband of his pants.  _Just get_ on _with it,_ Steve wanted to snap.  The longer he made Tony wait, drawing out this agony over cutting his clothes off, the harder it was going to be for him to stay on his feet, the way that bastard was tugging him around.  Tony wouldn’t be able to keep his balance like this forever, they all knew that, but this sure wasn’t making it any easier on him. Steve felt his stomach twist and turn over as the thug let the knife slide in to nick against Tony’s belly again and Tony hissed, his back slamming into the wall again as he breathed heavily through his nose.  The creep let it slide along, cutting a long, shallow line into Tony’s skin, just above his waistband, and Tony was breathing heavily through his nose, almost hyperventilating, his chest heaving, by the time the man finally brought the knife away and gripped his pants more tightly, cutting down right through the waistband on one side. The knife was sharp, because it sliced easily through Tony’s trousers down to the knee, and then the man ripped the leg in two all the way down with the same hand that was holding the knife. Tony’s leg was bare, now, and Steve could see the angry red splotches where the creep had slapped the belt across his thighs.  Those would bruise for sure, and badly.  He flexed his fists in their bounds, tried to breathe out through his nose, keep it together.

 

The creep started on Tony’s other pant leg, and the Skull turned back to Steve.  “His every sense should be exquisitely over-sensitized by now,” he said, and reached out, snapped his fingers right next to Tony’s ear.  Tony cried out, audibly, hoarse and rough and low, flinched his face away, panting, face twisting in pain.

 

“That’s it,” the creep told him, grinning, even as the knife slid down to Tony’s knee, Tony was trembling, trying so obviously hard to stay still as the knife slipped down over his skin, and the man flicked the knife in against Tony’s knee, the soft flesh just above it, all the same. Tony jolted, cried out, his head banging back against the wall, then he flinched again, his head falling forward. The creep laughed, and in that moment, if he could have, Steve thought he might have killed him. The Skull just smiled.

 

“You see?” he said.  “Wonderfully effective.  Every pinprick feels to him like a wound, a snap of the fingers like a gunshot. The light in the room will be painful to his eyes by now.  One can only imagine how the cold will feel to him, once he is bared to it.”

 

No wonder he’d winced away when Steve had yelled earlier, Steve thought, swallowing hard.  Oh, Tony.

 

“I’m actually impressed,” the Skull said, after a moment.  “He bears it well, for a soft, degenerate dilettante like himself.”

 

The creep of a thug tossed Tony’s pants away, and Tony was left shivering in the chill of the room, bare except for the bikini cut underwear he was wearing, black and silky.  Steve could really see the marks on his battered legs now, and something ached behind his breastbone.

 

“Oooh, now that’s pretty,” the creep leered. “Dressing up for big, dumb, and repressed over there?  Or do you just like how it feels?  It sure does show off your assets.” He reached forward, fondled Tony through the black silk.  Tony hissed in his breath and shuddered, tilted his head back slightly until the back of his head thunked against the wall again.

 

“Really, Sanderson, control yourself,” the Skull said with distaste.

 

Finally, Steve thought.  He’d wondered when the Skull’s vaunted disgust of homosexuality would put a stop to how the creep—Sanderson, but he was a creep—was treating Tony.  He supposed he’d finally crossed the line with him. Thank God.

 

Sanderson’s hand fell away from Tony’s privates, and Tony breathed out slowly.  Then he brought the knife up again, trailing it over Tony’s thigh with the flat of the blade, and Tony tensed all over.  Steve tensed with him.  “I wonder how much these cost,” he said, as if musing, rubbing his thumb along the silk. Tony shuddered. “What a waste. That’s a real shame.” He slid the tip of the knife under the strap on one side and sliced right through it.  Tony sucked in his breath, then lost it again, crying out, his breath wooshing out of him heavily, as the creep let the knife point dig into Tony’s flesh, the soft dip of it right above his hip bone. It left a bloody puncture wound that began to well with blood as soon as Sanderson pulled the knife back out, sliding the blade down just enough to open it up a little more along Tony’s hip.

 

Tony hissed with the pain, just enough voice behind it that it turned into a groan.  Blood welled up, slid along his hipbone, and he shivered.  Sanderson grinned at him again, touching his tongue to his own upper lip, then placed his thumb on the loosened silk at the top of Tony’s underwear, already slipping down enough to reveal Tony’s neatly trimmed pubic hair. He pushed it down a little more, until it fell away entirely to reveal Tony’s genitals.  Steve winced, couldn’t help it.  Tony’s cock was already swollen from the beating earlier, and his balls looked bruised, too.  Sanderson brought the knife down and tapped the handle of it against the bottom of Tony’s cock, pushing it up.  “Bigger than I thought for a little bitch,” he sneered. 

 

Tony sighed out a breath, but didn’t respond. Sanderson cut through the other strap, then grinned and dug the point into Tony’s flesh just above it again, cutting him the same way he had on the other side.  Tony hissed in his breath, gasped, choking on it, but didn’t cry out this time, even as Sanderson made the cut along his hip a little longer, tracing the knife downward before he drew it away.

 

The panties fell to lie, ruined, between Tony’s legs, and Steve made a mental note to surprise Tony with a few new pairs once they got out of this.  Not that he needed gifts from Steve; he had plenty, but it was the principle of it all. Something nice, once this was behind them, in the past, and rightfully forgotten.  Tony was shivering, and Steve thought _a nice warm robe, too_ , wishing he could put his arms around him so violently his arms felt as if they ached with it.

 

“So, where do you want me to start?” Sanderson asked, directing it back toward the Skull.  There were still a few other thugs standing around, or Steve might have tried something, even if he was bound to the wall and unable to throw himself far enough to reach Sanderson or Skull.  Steve eyed them out of the corner of his eye, wondering if they were bored.  A slip probably wouldn’t give him much of an opening, though.  One of them was holding Steve’s shield.  He scowled at them.  He wondered if . . . but no, not bound like this.  Maybe they’d come in range, sooner or later.  If he was patient.

 

Steve hated having to be patient. But there didn’t seem to be any way out of it.  That was just the position they were in.

 

The Skull tapped his chin with one finger, as if pondering, his motions theatrical as always.  “Arms,” he said, finally.  “Work your way down, I think.”  He motioned by to the man by the door, holding Steve’s shield.  “Bring that to me,” he said.

 

Steve tensed, watching, readying himself, but the man walked too far wide, just shy of Sanderson, not close enough for Steve to get him, even with his feet, even if he threw himself forward. He gritted his teeth and watched the man hand his girl to the Red Skull.  If he hit Tony with her—if he _dared_ to—

 

“Yes, sir,” Sanderson said, and leaned in, leered into Tony’s face again, mouth so close to his cheek Tony had to be feeling his breath.  Tony’s lips tightened, his jaw grinding with tension, but he made no other movement, as Sanderson drawled, “Now this’ll be fun,” and used the knife to trace a thin red line down Tony’s upraised arm, from just above his elbow nearly to his armpit, along the vulnerable underside.

 

Tony cried out, the sound escaping despite his locked jaw, and Steve could see the way he lurched forward and hung there, gasping for breath, practically whimpering.  Cold sweat was beading on his forehead, sticking his hair to his skin, and he was very pale.  Blood welled up along the line of the cut.  He’d been getting paler and paler.  Steve was worried; his growing pallor was probably a sign of shock.  God, with the drug they’d given him, how it was affecting him, how could he not be in shock?  It had to feel like he was being cut apart, vivisected.  Sanderson traced another line along Tony’s skin, parallel to the first, and Tony moaned, groaning far back in his throat, and his head rolled on his neck. “That’s it,” Sanderson told him, still grinning.  “Let us hear you, now.”

 

Tony’s groan warbled in his throat, choked, cut off, and Steve saw him bite down on his bottom lip.  He couldn’t blame him for not wanting to give the man the satisfaction, but he felt his heart lurch horribly in his chest and held his breath, willing Tony just to give Sanderson what he wanted so the creep wouldn’t be driven to make it worse to get it out of him.

 

Sure enough, the man’s knife bit in deeper, and surprised a swallowed little yelp of a moan from Tony, even as he clamped his lips together.  Steve heard himself panting through his nose as if from a long way away, even as the Skull let the shield drop to the floor, let it screech along concrete floor until it was centimeters away from Tony’s toes.  Tony winced, flinching, curled in on himself at the loud noise, panting for breath. “I’d wager you would like to have that in your hands now, Captain,” the Skull said, sounding self-satisfied. “But instead you will be able to see his blood begin to cover it.  A fitting symbol, I think, wouldn’t you agree?  Unable to save him, as he suffers because of you.”

 

It wasn’t because of him, Steve tried to remind himself.  What Tony had said was true.  They would have wanted to hurt him anyway.  If it hadn’t been Tony it would have been someone else.  It was who they were.  It was how this went. He couldn’t listen to Skull—

 

But it was his fault.  Tony wouldn’t have been brutalized and pawed over and cut on if he hadn’t been with Steve.  They would have done something else, no doubt, but this focus on Tony, this _was_ because of him, and Steve knew it.  He couldn’t lie to himself, not about any of this.  He swallowed, looking at his shield on the floor, feeling his hands itch to curl around it, to lift it and bash it into Skull’s face.  He was sweating, breathing hard, but he was only aware of it as if from a long way away.

 

Sanderson made another cut down Tony’s arm, on the other side of the first cut, creating three parallel lines, and Tony gave a soft groan, far back in his throat, and trembled all through his body. The cuts were clean enough that they were still only beginning to ooze blood, but Steve was sure that would change. They were shallow, but deeper than he liked with Tony in this state.  Not that he liked _anything_ about this, but— Sanderson ran the flat of the knife over Tony’s cheek, smearing it with blood and making him gasp, his eyes flying open, letting one edge of it just nick Tony’s cheekbone in a thin red line, then moved to his other arm.

 

He worked differently on this one, starting just beneath Tony’s elbow with a quick, deep horizontal cut that had Tony hissing and squeezing his eyes shut, rolling his head back against the wall. He followed it with another, just beneath, that looked just a hair deeper, then another, then another. By the time he was halfway down Tony’s arm, Tony’s chest was heaving and he was gasping loudly, moaning on each breath and tossing his head back and forth like he was trying to chase the pain away.

 

“Good,” the Skull said, “very good, Sanderson.” Steve could see the man grin.

 

“That’s more like it, sweetie,” the creep said to Tony, reaching up with his other hand and cupping his fingers around his chin, squeezing.  Tony gave him a disgusted look, half disbelieving, his eyes cracking open and his lip curling just enough that Steve couldn’t help the half manic bark of laughter that escaped him, even though he knew perfectly well he should bite it back, it was just, Tony’s face was so perfect—Sanderson spun around, glared at him, one of the other thugs snickered, and Tony smiled slightly before he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the concrete wall.

 

“He’s far too good for any of you,” Steve told them. “For any of this. I know it.  He knows it.  This doesn’t prove anything, except that he bleeds like everyone else.”

 

Sanderson gritted his teeth.  “Yeah, and you’re going to get to watch him,” he snarled. He raised the knife, only to stop when the Skull spoke again.

 

“Control yourself,” he said.  “Don’t lose sight of the goal, or I will have to keep you in line.” His lip curled. “Or take over myself,” he said.

 

There was a moment of silence, and then Sanderson said, “Yessir,” though he sounded unwilling.  Then he rounded on Tony and backhanded him across the face, hard enough to slam his head back into the wall.  Steve heard the crack, saw Tony reel, then sag forward, gasping, even as the man turned back to cut another deep, horizontal slash into the muscle of Tony’s arm.  Tony groaned at that, a pained noise that dragged deep out of his chest. Steve wondered if he was even still fully conscious, and felt another lurch of guilt in his throat, his eyes fixed on him, as if his own breaths depended on Tony’s, as if he was trying to push energy, strength, even easier breathing, into Tony with each pounding beat of his heart in his ears and throat.

 

Tony kept groaning, trembling and making soft, hurting little sounds in the back of his throat as Sanderson worked his way down his arm.  Steve felt sick, felt like every one of them was tugging at his own throat, his own chest, pulling him forward, toward Tony.  He would have given anything in that moment to cover Tony with his own body. Blood was oozing down both of Tony’s arms now, down over his chest, and he was sallow and pale, tilting his head back and then forward again like he couldn’t quite get a breath. “You can do this, Tony,” Steve said, desperately.  It wasn’t that he thought that he couldn’t, it was just that he couldn’t stand not saying _anything_ , just letting him suffer in silence, off in his own little world, far away from Steve, maybe thinking Steve was just watching stolidly, or didn’t care.

 

Tony moaned, softly, but then he shifted, rolling his head toward Steve, and his eyes cracked open to tiny blue slits. He made a small noise in the back of his throat, an obvious affirmative to Steve’s ears, and his lips curved in a weak smile as he met Steve’s eyes.  His gaze was unfocused and bleary, but he still met Steve’s eyes, and Steve had to swallow hard through a thick throat.

 

Sanderson gave a brief growl of distaste and grabbed Tony’s face, his thumb digging in just above his jaw.  “Stop looking at him,” he said, “it’s only making this worse for you,” then backhanded Tony across the face again.  His next horizontal slash across Tony’s arm, nearest to the base of it, was the deepest yet, and started welling blood almost immediately.

 

Tony touched his tongue to the side of his mouth, to his lip, both welling with fresh blood, and leaned his battered head against the wall at a tilt, but his eyes flickered open again and traveled back to Steve, and he smiled again, faint but steady.  _Shows what you know_ , that expression seemed to say, or maybe Steve was just reading into it, but he thought he could see it in his eyes.  They were warm and didn’t waver where they rested on Steve, even as Sanderson swiped his own blood over his other cheek and cooed in a parody of sweetness, “Now, let’s start on your chest,” bringing the knife down to slice a thin, bloody line over Tony’s collarbone.  Tony groaned, arched his back helplessly, biting at his lip again, but he didn’t look away from Steve even as he trembled and his teeth bit in ever deeper, worrying at his lip.

 

“That’s it,” Steve breathed, feeling his heart pounding in his throat still, his chest tightening even further, even as warmth welled up inside him, despite the cold sweat of tension he could still feel on his chest and arms, the way his heart was pounding.  Tony smiled a little more, even as Sanderson cut a little deeper and another groan was wrenched out of him, more blood welling up and dripping down his chest.  Tony shifted his foot, Steve noticed, sliding it slowly, carefully across the floor as far as the chains would let him.  Neither the Skull nor Sanderson, nor any of the other thugs, seemed to notice the slow, steady movement, focused on the way Tony cried out, tipping his head back, as Sanderson made another cut, deeper, just under Tony’s collarbone this time. Tony slid his foot up against the surface of the shield, nudging it onto it just enough that the shield helped take some of the weight off his chained arms, off the ball of his foot. Steve could see it immediately as some of the tension went out of his leg, out of his arms, though he was careful not to relax too much, giving another loud groan and letting his head hang forward, to the side, as Sanderson cut another gash, above his other collarbone this time.  Steve felt his heart twist in his chest, liquid and warm but still somehow painful, and hoped they didn’t notice that Tony had found a way to use their cruel gesture to support himself.

 

The blood was really dripping down Tony now, from the cuts on his hips, oozing down over his thighs, from his arms down over his shoulders and chest, and now even more from his chest.  Steve wondered how fast he was losing it. It wasn’t as if he was bleeding heavily, but his body was already so compromised, so battered, that it still sent a freezing spike of worry through his stomach to see it.  There was no way to know yet if he was bleeding internally. Steve knew Extremis had some healing ability (it had saved Tony when he’d stopped own his heart, Steve thought, his own heart pounding, it had to be able to handle this), but he had no idea how much or how fast it worked.  And however he was healing, that wouldn’t do anything for the pain he was in, artificially increased by the drugs as it was.  Sanderson had made several more cuts down Tony’s chest now, bleeding wounds over his pecs, and lower, along his ribs. He ran the knife, the flat of it, consideringly along Tony’s skin, as if wondering where he should cut next. Tony just let his head hang forward, panting for breath, his eyes closed.  He didn’t look up. 

 

Sanderson made another quick cut along his ribs, and Tony hissed, sucked in his breath, his battered belly quivering, and trembled all over, but didn’t really respond much.  His eyes were closed and he seemed far away. Steve just hoped he was all right, that that distance was helping him, and not a sign of his growing weakness, that he was holding up—

 

“Getting boring,” one of the thugs complained from the door, and the Skull just smiled slightly, but Sanderson scowled and dragged Tony’s head up by the hair.  Tony didn’t resist or open his eyes, just breathed softly and slowly, not responding.

 

“Come on now, honey, put on a little bit more of a show,” Sanderson snapped.  Tony licked his bottom lip, but didn’t open his eyes or respond, pressing his lips together after he was done moistening the bottom one.  Sanderson slapped him again, and Tony grunted, breathy and low, like he’d felt it all the way through him, but didn’t say anything. “I thought you’d be more of a screamer,” Sanderson said conversationally.  “But you’re quieter than I thought you’d be.  You quiet for him in bed, too?”  He cocked his head back at Steve.

 

“Oh, no,” Tony mumbled, his voice low and scratchy, after a moment of silence.  “I scream at the top of my lungs for him.  You just don’t have what it takes.  I mean,” he swallowed, voice hitching and gasping a little, then firmed it and continued, “did you really think you measured up to Captain America?”

 

Steve choked on a his breath a little in surprise at that, then felt his cheeks starting to heat.  He hadn’t even realized Tony was still with it enough to string thoughts together that way, had thought he was semi-conscious at best, and now he felt vaguely guilty for underestimating him.

 

The fact was, it wasn’t true, Tony was usually vocal but quiet in bed, all low, rough, breathy moans and eager, pleasure-hazy words spilling out of his mouth clever and heated.  There had only been a few times Tony had gotten . . . loud . . . for him.  To tell the truth, Steve was still a little proud of each and every one of them.  That didn’t make the lie any less satisfying, though it still sent fear shooting through him, for Tony.  Sanderson was clearly unbalanced and taking this personally. Steve was afraid he’d take out whatever . . . twisted _rivalry_ he seemed to perceive between himself and Steve, of all things, out on Tony.

 

It was _still_ satisfying to see the look on his face.  The creep looked so shocked, so surprised.

 

“Really, Stark, we don’t need the sordid details,” Skull said, sounding disgusted.  Good. Steve hoped they were making him uncomfortable.

 

“Yeah, Tony’s a real screamer,” he said, rough himself, though keeping his voice soft, to spare Tony’s sensitized hearing, to let his affection show in it.  “Aren’t you, baby?”

 

“Just can’t keep my mouth shut,” Tony said, the words rasping, a soft, crooked smile on his face as he met Steve’s eyes with his own unfocused gaze.

 

When Tony opened his eyes, Steve saw the black film of Extremis for a moment before it flicked away, and had to swallow his jolt of adrenaline.  Tony was doing something, working on something—was that why he’d seemed so far away up till then? Steve had been so useless up until now, just sitting here like a big stupid lump and _watching_ , but Tony, he should have known Tony would have a plan.

 

“That’s for sure,” Steve said warmly, a little ruefully—that _was_ true, in bed or outside of it, and now it was getting Tony in a pile of trouble. But he wouldn’t have changed it for the world, even so.  It was one of the things he loved most about him. 

 

“Enough,” Skull said.  Sanderson seemed to take that as his cue to drive the knife deeper into Tony’s side than he had so far.  Tony did cry out that time, arching his back until his head thudded against the wall, the noise he made raw and long enough to call a scream. Steve’s heart thudded painfully against his ribs, and he couldn’t breathe for a moment, saw his vision blur. Sanderson pulled the knife out of Tony’s side and blood welled up after it, slipping quickly down Tony’s side now. Sanderson slapped Tony, backhanded, across the face.  Steve heard him give a whimper, saw how he wasn’t struggling, his head nodding, wobbling loose and heavy on his neck.  His hands were slipping on the chains, trembling, barely holding on. Steve was surprised, honestly surprised, he’d kept himself up this long.  He couldn’t imagine the pain of that knife in his side; Tony must have felt like he’d been impaled.  Cold sweat had broken out all over him now, and he was panting noisily.  His blood was running down his legs now, dripping onto the shield. Just like Skull had wanted, Steve thought with bitterness.  Tony’s eyes were closed again.

 

“You can do this,” Steve murmured, feeling the words choke in his throat.  “You can do this, Tony.  Just hold on.” Tony’s head bobbed, slowly, as if in a nod, and he blew out his breath in a long, slow exhale. “Just hold on, baby,” Steve whispered. Tony nodded again. Almost predictably, it was met by another slap from Sanderson.  Tony bit his lip, made a small noise, almost too quiet to hear.  Steve bit his own lip, so hard he tasted blood. Tony’s hands were trembling around the chains so obviously now. 

 

Sanderson wiped off the blood on the knife across Tony’s belly and made a deep cut on the other side.  Tony shook visibly, breathing unsteadily, as the knife cut into him, dug a deep gash, and he arched his neck back, took a deep breath, his eyes opening so that Steve could see how dilated they were, how lost and searching they looked, drugged and glazed.  But again, he saw the black film of Extremis slick back first.

 

“You’ve got this,” Steve said, low and soft and steady. If this was the only thing he could do for Tony right now, then by God, he was going to do it. It felt like terribly little, like nothing at all, but Tony was still responding to his voice, at least. Maybe it did help. Make him feel better, at least, even if nothing else. 

 

Even if it was worse than nothing, and Steve felt sick to his stomach, gut churning and anger turning inward at himself, at his own stupid, pointless helplessness.  Just sitting there and watching Tony hurt.  He’d rather just about anything else.  Rather be beat into the ground; that he would rather be the one cut on was a given, but just—anything than be simply forced to sit and watch, a pathetic spectator to his lover and teammate and friend being brutalized.

 

Tony’s eyes flicked over toward him, and he took a deep breath, then closed them again.  Sanderson trailed the knife down over the softest part of Tony’s belly, leaving a red line in its wake, and Steve bit the inside of his cheek as Tony flinched, made a soft gasping noise.  The knife traveled down further, over Tony’s thigh, the top of it, cutting in deeper there.  Tony flinched, and the noise that escaped him was slightly louder this time. Steve felt his stomach turn over. Hearing sounds like that wrenched out of Tony over and over, it was like hell.  Blood dripped from the wound, trickled down Tony’s thigh, down his leg. His legs were wobbling now, obviously, especially as Sanderson slapped his face again, grinning at him.

 

Steve wished he could wring his thick, brutish neck for him.  But just wishing wasn’t going to make it happen.  Sanderson slapped Tony’s knee with the flat of the knife, making him jump and wobble, foot twisting on the wet concrete, the other sliding on Steve’s shield. The man laughed and wrapped his other hand around Tony’s neck, squeezing.  Steve could hear Tony’s breath straining as the man’s big hand tightened, his gasps as the grip started to cut off his air.

 

He couldn’t help it; he was straining at his own bonds again before he thought.  “Get your hands off him,” he snarled.  “Just get away from him.  Damn you.” Again, his bonds didn’t budge, he was just letting them dig into his wrists, but he didn’t care, didn’t stop fighting, trying to get traction on the concrete, set his feet to strain at the chains. His wrists were already raw, and pain shot up from them along his forearms, but he didn’t care. He’d rather that than just sitting there helpless.

 

The Red Skull tutted disapprovingly and turned to him. “Now, now, Captain,” he said. “Those are adamantium bonds you know. Even your muscle is useless against them, as I’m sure you’ve already discovered.  Multiple times, if I know you.  You should save your strength.”  Tony was still gasping behind them as Sanderson’s hand cut off his air, beginning to struggle and thrash, his back arching against the wall as he strained and his eyes rolling, eyelids fluttering, his own chains clinking as he fought.

 

“For what?” Steve growled.  “To watch you torture him?”  He gritted his teeth.  “I’ll pass on that.”

 

“You would prefer not to watch?” the Skull asked, smiling now.  “To hear him screaming and not know what we were doing to him?  Or worse, hear nothing and wonder why it was?  If he was simply being stoic in an attempt to spare you—or perhaps worse? If next we would drag in his body to toss it at your feet?”

 

Oh, God. 

 

Oh, God, that would be even worse. Steve felt a cold shock pass through him and swallowed hard.  “Just take me instead,” he spat.  Tony was still struggling, mouth open as he strained for air, but clearly not getting any, his chest heaving as his eyes rolled back in his head.  Sanderson was laughing, the _bastard_. Steve wanted his hands around his neck more than ever.

 

“Oh, no,” the Skull said smugly. “I don’t think so. You do suffer beautifully, Captain, but all the more so when you are helpless and forced to bear witness to what you cannot prevent.  Look at him, Rogers.” He sneered.  “The man you _love_ , or so you claim.”  Sanderson released Tony with a smile and he fell back against the wall, choking and spluttering for breath.  There were vivid red marks from Sanderson’s fingers along his throat, just beneath his jaw, and Tony was heaving like it hurt to drag in the air he so desperately needed. He turned his face away and squeezed his eyes shut.  “I admit, he is not quite so beautifully stoic as you are,” the Skull said contentedly.  “Oh, he does his best, but his pain is so . . . obvious.” Sanderson hit Tony across the face with the back of his hand, then reached down, wrapped his fist around Tony’s soft cock and squeezed it like he had his neck.  That had Tony yelling, his eyes shooting open as he yowled in pain, threw his head back and tried to struggle, instinctively, Steve could see him tugging at the bonds around his ankles and doing nothing but battering them against the metal.

 

Sanderson laughed again and let go just to slap his hand hard across Tony’s genitals, just like he had his face. Tony shouted again, and it trailed off into a hitching whimper as he groaned, his shoulders hunched in like he wanted to scrunch down over the injury, breath still coming choked and straining in his throat, wavering so that Steve could hear it.  Steve felt himself cry out with him, fighting his bonds with renewed strength with an urge to get to Skull, to make him pay for this. Skull was right, damn him to hell, it was the worst kind of agony watching them do this to Tony. Tony was still struggling, straining for air, coughing and swallowing and rasping for breath like it hurt him. It had to feel like hell. Steve couldn’t even imagine what that had to feel like with his senses on overdrive like they were, the pain Tony had to be in with every heaving, struggling breath.  He groaned slightly, shaking his head as if to clear it and gasping painfully again as if the movement had set it off. His head was down, but Steve could see how screwed up with pain it was.  “Tony,” he said, aching, and his voice came out strangled and hoarse.

 

“S’all right, Steve,” Tony slurred the words, coughing on each one, barely audible.  His voice was painful to listen to, rough and raw.  He didn’t lift his head.  “’m okay. Okay, s'okay.”

 

“Quiet,” Steve said, his throat thick, so that he was choking on it now.  “Don’t strain yourself.”

 

Tony bobbed his head, barely audible, and let out a soft, shallow breath.

 

“How touching,” the Skull drawled, as Sanderson scowled at Tony and wrenched his head back, which set off another round of coughing, only to cut a wound along the side of his neck.  Tony groaned and let his head drop forward again. “How long do you think he can endure, Captain?” the Skull asked, cocking his head to one side and watching Tony as he breathed in shallow, huffing breaths that still sounded painful, as if they were just barely skating along over the rawness of his throat.

 

“I have no idea,” Steve ground out. It was honest at least. “He’s stronger than me. He’s a million times stronger than you can even begin to understand, Skull.”

 

“Ah, yes,” the Skull said.  “The vaunted Iron Man.  But his body _is_ just mortal, is it not? Frail.  All too human.”

 

Sanderson hauled back and slammed his fist into Tony’s gut, the one not holding the blood-smeared knife.  Tony crumpled forward as far as he could with the chains still holding him, the metal ringing against the concrete walls, coughing and choking all over again as he heaved for breath, the air clearly knocked out of him. The blow sent blood spattering across Steve’s shield from the wound down Tony’s abdomen, which split open further at the impact.  At least it was nothing more than a shallow cut, but it still made Steve feel ill to see the blood oozing from the messy gash down Tony’s belly.  Tony was groaning on each breath now, and it sounded like it hurt. His head lolled helplessly when Sanderson went back to knot his hand in his hair again, and it was clear that he wasn’t even fighting to hold it up anymore, or to fight that cruel grip in the thick strands.  His face and chest were glimmering with blood and cold sweat.

 

“You think so highly of him,” the Skull said, “but isn’t it just possible he will expire from the pain alone? Men have been known to do so, you know. Even strong, healthy, well-trained men.”

 

Tony’s hands were still knotted in the chains above his head, his muscles straining, keeping himself up. He wasn’t that far gone. Not like Skull was suggesting.

 

“Tony can take this,” Steve said softly, staring across at him, his heart twisting in his chest as he struggled to breathe himself through a thick throat, listening to Tony’s hoarse rasps for air.

 

“Can he?” the Skull asked.  “What do you think, Sanderson?”

 

“Gotta say,” the man said, almost purred it, still leering into Tony’s face, “he’s pretty tough, for someone like him.” Tony shifted slightly, but didn’t really move, letting out another long, slow breath.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said shortly, “you’re right, he is tough even for a superhero.”

 

“Ha,” the Skull said. “A pretender, relying upon a technological crutch?  He is not at all like you and me, Captain.”

 

“That’s right,” Steve said.  “Everything Tony has going for him came out of his brain. Not at all like you and me, is it, Skull?”  He flexed one arm. “Or did you forget I wasn’t born like this, Big Red?”  He looked across at Tony, panting, his head down and arms stretched out above his head, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead and neck.  “Tony was born a genius,” he said.  “It’s all him.”

 

“Well, he hasn’t been genius enough to get himself out of this,” the Skull said.  “Or you, I notice.”

 

He would, Steve, thought.  He was sure of it.  “Can’t win ‘em all,” he said with a shrug.

 

“You seem unconcerned about your lack of progress toward an escape,” the Skull said.  “Your emergency transponders have been deactivated.  Our trail was covered expertly.  No one knows you are here, and no one will be coming to save you. Your lover suffers torture before your eyes, and you are.  Entirely. At.  My.  Mercy. Have you given up? That does not sound like the great Captain America.”

 

“You’ll slip eventually,” Steve said. “You always do.”

 

That drew a snarl out of the Skull, at least. “While you wait for a chance that will never come, your lover suffers,” he flung back at Steve, and gestured to another of the thugs guarding the door.  The man stepped forward.

 

“Yes, sir,” he said.

 

“Do it,” the Skull commanded, and Steve looked up at that with alarm.  Do what? What was the next awful thing they were going to do to Tony?  God, please, he found himself thinking, praying in reality, don’t let them have some new awful plan to hurt him—

 

But the thug stepped toward Steve instead. Steve tensed, firmed his muscles, ready to lash out if he got so much as a chance—

 

Sanderson slapped Tony’s face once, twice, lightly, almost a mocking joke, just hard enough to sting, until Tony was panting, then dragged his head back again.  He held his knife to his throat.  Steve stilled. Tony’s eyes were closed, but Steve could see his Adam’s apple bobbing, the way his abused, swollen throat worked.

 

“You won’t kill him,” he said, and he could hear how rough his voiced sounded.  “You need him to get to me, remember?”

 

“No,” the Skull said.  “We won’t kill him.  Not yet. But there are worse things we can do than simply snuffing out his life.  We could make death a mercy.”

 

Sanderson moved the knife up, until it was hovering just over Tony’s shut eyelid, and lowered it, slowly, until the point was resting against his forehead, just above his eyebrow.  Steve could see blood welling where he let the tip settle.

 

Bile rose up in his throat, and he felt something wrench inside him.  He looked down, let his muscles relax.  “No,” he said. “Don’t.”  Extremis might be able to regrow damage to Tony’s eyes, to heal it, but Steve—Steve never wanted to find out.

 

“So you do see it our way, Captain,” the Skull purred. “I thought you might.” He gestured to his bullyboy. “Go on.”

 

Steve hated it, his stomach knotted and he felt hot with rage, sweat breaking out all over him, and he couldn’t keep himself from tensing the muscles in his neck as the thug drew out a syringe and moved in toward him, but he let him, all the same.  He saw at least four ways that even bound as he was he could have done some damage, grabbed the man, but instead he turned his head to one side and let the man jab the syringe into his neck, the helplessness of it, the _giving in_ twisting hideously in his belly, like rotten food that wouldn’t stay down. He instantly felt it as the drug was injected—with his metabolism, most drugs hit him like a ton of bricks, they just didn’t last for long.  He felt his mind fuzzing over, his muscles going weak, felt himself sag in his bonds. His tongue felt thick and stupid in his mouth, and his vision swam.  His arms and head were suddenly so heavy, and he realized belatedly that his head had sagged forward.  He could barely keep his eyes open to slits as the man put that syringe aside and took out another. He stuck this one into Steve’s neck, too, and it _hurt_ , surprising Steve with the dull sting.  He grunted, and the man’s hand came up to hold his head still, settling over his face and gripping his forehead like a vise, gloved fingers digging into his skin as the other hand held the syringe in his neck.

 

Tony made a sound.  “Steve,” he said, as if from far away.  It took long moments for Steve’s mind to process the sound of his own name.  Steve wanted to look at him, but he couldn’t; the thug was holding his head still, and his hand was in front of his eyes.  He pulled the syringe out, and Steve could feel a thin, hot trickle of blood make its way down his neck, but before hardly any time had passed, or at least it felt like nothing but a breath to his addled mind, another needle was jammed into his neck in against the same place.  He thought he might have groaned aloud, but he couldn’t be sure.  His head swam.  Everything felt very thick and muffled and far away.  He was vaguely aware of his anxiety for Tony, battering at the lassitude of his mind, quickening his heartbeat, but it was hard to focus on anything else. Hard even to focus on that, but that was too important to let slide out of his mind.  He couldn’t forget it.  Not that.

 

He heard Tony grunt, gasp, as if from a long way away, and the jangle of his chains against the wall, and struggled, trying to shake the man’s hand away, twist free, to see what they were doing to Tony. His head swooped and spun, making his stomach turn over, pain throbbing in his skull, and his body was uncoordinated, flopping helplessly instead of responding to his commands. The man merely yanked his head to the side, and Steve felt the jab of the needle one more time. He could hear his own gasps loud in his ears, drowning out whatever sounds were coming from Tony, and tried desperately to breathe more quietly so he could hear better, holding his breath in between pants for air.  There was another low, pained sound from Tony, and Steve again instinctively tried to push the man holding him away, jerk his head free, not even thinking about it, but he was too weak; his head barely twitched, rolling on his neck.

 

Finally, the man let him go, and Steve felt his head sag forward despite himself, despite how he strained to hold it up. He only vaguely saw the man move away and cap the third syringe in his hand, out of the corner of his eyes. He shook his head once, twice, to clear it, and dragged it up, with an effort of will, gritting his teeth, even thought it felt like it weighed more than his whole body.  Slowly his vision was beginning to clear.

 

Blood, he thought, belatedly, with a wave of panic-fueled adrenaline.  The man had taken his blood.  He could feel his neck bleeding where they’d stuck him with the syringe.  It was no secret what that could be used for. But why—why did they need his version of the serum? 

 

Whatever they wanted with it, he didn’t want them to have it.  He blinked his eyes clear, setting his jaw to keep himself from panting, showing any more of his weakness than he already had—

 

The man with his blood was leaving the room, and Steve watched him out of the corner of his eyes, caught just a glimpse of him taking the right turn in the corridor before his attention returned entirely to Tony.

 

They had unchained Tony from the wall, though his hands were freshly manacled behind him, his ankles still chained together, and he was swaying on his knees, gasping, his head down.  Steve swallowed, hard, felt his stomach twist—this was going nowhere good.  He didn’t like the look of it.  He didn’t like it at all. Still, he was glad at least that Tony’s arms were down, and not bearing the weight of his body. Even if it just meant they’d find some other way to hurt him, that was . . . something.

 

As Steve watched, Sanderson gripped the back of Tony’s neck and pushed him roughly down until his cheek was flat against the damp, dirty concrete.  Tony went, still heaving for breath, though Steve noticed a moment of resistance before Sanderson squeezed his fingers in and pushed harder and Tony gave in. Sanderson brought his boot down and used it to push Tony harder against the floor, digging the heel into the small of his back.  Steve swallowed, his chest pulling tight, and then the Skull handed Sanderson a knotted, many-tailed whip of the type Steve had seen the Skull use on prisoners before, or had his thugs use, and his blood ran cold.

 

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, and his words came out slow, hoarse and husky.  God. No.  What could he say?  What would convince them not to do this?  “I—he’ll pass out, and then you won’t be able to do this anymore, will you?”

 

“But oh, the suffering before he does,” Skull said, sounding gleeful.

 

“Please don’t,” Steve said desperately, helplessly. “Is that what you want? Do you want me to beg? I will.”  Tony was shivering; Steve could see his back trembling, the cold sweat standing out on his back, the dirt that had been smeared over his pallid skin from the treads of Sanderson’s boot.

 

“It is gratifying,” the Skull said. “The proud Captain America humbling himself for his dissolute lover.  Bending that stiff neck.  One might think you actually cared for him.  But then, you’d do that for anyone, wouldn’t you?”

 

Steve swallowed, his eyes tracking the dark, soft curl of Tony’s damp hair against his neck, the way he gasped helplessly against the ground, the way he was trembling.  He ached at the humiliating position Tony had been forced into, on his knees, face and chest against the ground.  He wouldn’t wish this on anyone, no, would do anything he could to spare anyone torture like this, but Skull wanted to make it sound like—like it wasn’t worse, because it was Tony, and that made Steve’s stomach twist, his throat hurt. Because of course it was. Of course it was worse. Was that Skull’s game? To make Steve feel guilty for caring more for Tony than he did for people he didn’t even know? If that was what he wanted, then he’d finally read Steve wrong, for a change.  Steve didn’t feel guilty for feeling that way about Tony, Tony was his fella, his sweetheart, his guy, of course he hated seeing him hurt a little bit extra, of course it twisted sick and cold and hurting just as much in the pit of his own stomach, too.  Felt almost like it was happening to him. Of course it did. “Doesn’t matter,” he finally said, low and quiet.  His head was still swimming, and he had to keep blinking to keep his eyes clear.  “I’m begging you now.”  If this was the only thing he could do to help Tony, he would do it, hell; it wasn’t like he was being much use to him any other way. Tony still had his eyes closed, and Steve wondered, suddenly, if he was still using Extremis, or if it was all too hard for him to focus on it by this point.

 

“Well, thank you,” Skull said. He was still smiling. “I do so enjoy watching you humiliate yourself.  It is good to know how much it will distress you to see your whore flogged like a misbehaving dog.”

 

Steve felt his stomach twist, let his head hang as he looked down at the floor.  So it was going to be like that, then.  All that talk had been for nothing.  Of course, the Skull would be like that.  _I’m sorry, Tony,_ he thought, aching all over, down to his bones. 

 

He knew Tony didn’t want him thinking it was his fault, but it was hard not to, when Tony wouldn’t even have been in this position if not for Skull’s vendetta against Steve.  He probably wouldn’t be humiliating him like this, anyway, not—like this, in this objectifying, dehumanizing way, like he only mattered because Steve cared about him, because his pain would make Steve suffer, too. He couldn’t deny that to himself. It was just the truth.

 

He could hear it as Skull turned to Sanderson and said, “Please, begin.”

 

Sanderson fisted one hand in Tony’s hair and tugged his head up, making him whimper and gasp as his back was forced to bend against the boot keeping him down, then, finally, shifted his boot off him and dragged him up along the floor to shove him into the wall.  Tony grunted, flinching, his body trembling, but didn’t make any other sound.  He wasn’t giving much away; Steve wasn’t even sure if he was aware of what was about to happen. He felt cold sweat break out on his own hairline, down his neck, feeling his stomach twist, a heaviness settling into the pit of it, deep down behind his navel, as Sanderson dragged Tony’s bound arms down to rest just above his hips, baring his back, and snapped the whip once, twice, until the tails dangled freely.  Tony still had his eyes closed and was breathing shallowly but evenly.  Sanderson snapped the whip once more, then hauled his wrist back.

 

As the first blow fell, Tony flinched, gasped open-mouthed, with a low sound of pain.  He leaned his forehead against the wall and kept his eyes closed. Steve was just relieved to see that there was no barbed wire or glass worked in among the knotted tails, so at least Tony’s back wouldn’t be cut to ribbons.  It was a harsh, raw looking dark leather, with those knots and pointed tails that looked like they might be capable of cutting him on their own, but at least there was nothing that would rip him to shreds.  Steve guessed it made sense—they didn’t want to kill him, after all, and they didn’t know he had Extremis—but he was still hideously, horribly grateful for it. 

 

The welts the whip left were immediately visible along Tony’s skin, standing out bright red and thinly puffy against the pallor of his back.  Sanderson whipped the tails around and brought them back down hard and fast, with hardly a moment in between, and this time the sound Tony made was louder, sounded shocked out of him, hard and painful.  His hands trembled, worked in his bonds, his arms shaking.  It was all too obvious that he was fighting the pain, trying to stay strong, and Steve wished he would just give in, pass out, let it end for him for now. But he couldn’t tell Tony to do that, not right then, in that moment.  However Tony was resisting, he wasn’t going to stop him. 

 

He didn’t avert his eyes, either. The least he could do for him was watch. Even if it was the only thing he could do for him right then.

 

At least then he would know how badly he was hurt, for later.  Tony would probably have no idea, with his pain sense shot to hell the way it was. There, that was something Steve could do for him, pathetic as it was.  Watch and remember. 

 

Steve’s chest hurt.  That deep, internal ache, like his bones were grinding together, nauseating in his stomach, only grew worse, deeper, as Sanderson settled into a kind of rhythm.  It was fast and hard, not giving Tony much time to rest between strokes, the tails snapping across his back again almost as soon as they left it.  Tony was making a sound every time now, growing louder and louder, as if he simply couldn’t keep it back anymore.  His back was flushed all over by this point, red from shoulders to his waist, more welts standing out against the others, but they were starting to blur over each other, thin puffy streaks edging thickly together. Steve could see where the skin was starting to abrade, thin lines of blood starting to show along the skin. Tony moaned, low in his chest and helpless sounding, again and again, between the jerks and loud noises of pain he let out with each thud against his back.  He had settled even more against the wall, as if he couldn’t hold his head up anymore, his bare chest flat against the concrete and starting to turn red and raw, too, every time he jerked and dragged it along the scratchy surface, blood smearing along it, and all over him as it flowed more freely from the knife wounds, too.

 

“I knew you’d scream for me sooner or later,” Sanderson, a bit out of breath with the pace he was keeping up, but his voice still crawlingly self-satisfied.  Steve felt sick, felt his face flush bright red again with anger. Tony had to be half out of his head with agony with that drug in his system and this—this disgusting excuse for a human being was gloating over it.  Every time Sanderson let the whip crack against Tony’s kidneys and lower back, Steve felt himself wince, his stomach turn over.  Tony had to be hurting so badly, he was just—Steve set his jaw firmly.  He just had to stay alert, had to look for any chance to get them out of this, that was all. “I knew the whip would be your thing,” Sanderson continued in a low, husky sort of voice that made Steve’s skin crawl. “The boy scout over there should take notes on how to use this to keep you in line.”

 

“Steve doesn’t . . . doesn’t n-need this to keep . . . me in line,” Tony’s voice was hoarse, rough and thready and slurring badly, but the words were still discernible, and the sarcasm in his tone still obvious, despite the weakness of his voice.

 

Steve let his breath out on a desperate not-quite-laugh.  God, Tony. It would be better for him to just leave it alone, Steve knew that, but it was good to hear his voice, all the same. To know he was still in there. He’d never felt much like he ‘kept Tony in line,’ though.  Whatever Tony was thinking.

 

Sanderson let the whip snap cruelly horizontally along Tony’s lower back again, barely above his buttocks, and Tony let out a cry, body flinching forward.  “Maybe he should take it up,” he spat, and struck him again, even lower down, so that the harsh lines of the leather cracked over Tony’s forearms. “Mouthy little shit like you needs it, to be taken in hand.  Clearly no one’s ever worked you over hard enough.”

 

Tony grunted, cried out again as the tails smacked across his back, long and raw, was left shaking against the wall. Steve could see blood coming where the tails had marked him now.  Tony gasped painfully, rough sounds leaving him with every stroke of the whip. “Just—just didn’t take,” he finally managed to gasp.

 

“I’ll just have to see that you’re _properly_ broken in then,” Sanderson crooned, letting fly with an especially hard stroke that had Tony jolting forward into the wall and crying out in what was almost a scream.  “Since I have this chance.”

 

Steve already knew he couldn’t get free, but he tugged on his chains anyway, almost to distract himself from his own anger as Sanderson started up on Tony again, twice as hard, it seemed like. He tried to wind the chains around his wrists and tug, but they were too short, and he couldn’t manage it. The harsh, stinging leather of the whip was noticeably drawing blood now, even if just slight trickles of it, and Tony’s whole back looked raw and welted.  And bruised beneath the welts, Steve would say; Sanderson’s hand was heavy, and there was no way there weren’t bruises beneath the injuries to the skin, probably down to the bone in some places.  Tony was screaming now, like he’d lost the control that had kept him back, or maybe he just couldn’t do it anymore, and it made Steve feel hot and sick.  He never heard him scream like that, not even usually when he was hurt in a fight, and never like this, prolonged, one ragged, gasping yell after the other.

 

He swallowed, keeping his eyes on him. Tony was weakening, he could see it. Not just in the way he was screaming, but the slump of his body against the wall.  Steve wasn’t sure what Tony’s plan was, or if passing out would be a problem for them there, but he couldn’t help hoping he would pass out soon, if only to spare him the pain for a while.  Even if only for a short time.

 

It still took longer than Steve had expected. Tony’s back was as raw as pounded meat by the time he slumped against the wall and his screams trailed off into pained grunts and moans, and then into nothing at all.  Sanderson stalked around and shoved Tony’s head up with the whip, but his head just lolled on his neck, heavy, insensible, and he didn’t respond even when Sanderson slapped his face once, twice, hard enough that the force showed on Tony’s bloodied cheek as a hot red over his pallor and blood smeared along his skin.  “He’s out,” Sanderson said, looking back up at the Skull.

 

“Chain him,” the Skull said, dismissive. “That took longer than I expected, and we have work to do.”  Sanderson looked disappointed, but he did turn back to Tony, grabbing his chin and tilting his head up.  His head fell back limply, and Sanderson sighed and let his head fall forward again before grabbing him under the arms.

 

Steve chewed on the inside of his lip and didn’t speak as Sanderson dragged Tony back over to the wall, shoving him back against it with so little regard for the state of his back that if Tony had been conscious it would have been agony.  Steve bit down so hard on the inside of his lip that he tasted blood. Sanderson dragged Tony’s hands up and chained them above his head, but they left enough slack in the chains this time that Tony’s limp arms bent at the elbows.  Steve breathed a sigh of relief that they didn’t force Tony up into the position he’d been in before, let him stay seated, bare buttocks against the concrete.

 

The Skull turned to Steve, but Steve ignored him, focusing on the way Tony’s head lolled loose on his neck, the sheen of cold sweat over his entire body.  He was so damn pale, and his entire front side was a mess of blood.  Steve knew the wounds were superficial, but it didn’t make it any less horrifying to see, and he wasn’t sure how much Tony was bleeding. He could see it still welling up in the cuts along his neck, into his sides and smearing across his skin.

 

“We thank for your contribution to the cause,” Skull said, to Steve, smoothly.  “Your blood is certain to prove . . . useful.”

 

Steve gritted his teeth and didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes fixed on Tony and the steady rise and fall of his chest, the limp sprawl of his body against the cold concrete of the wall, wishing he could kneel beside him and pull him into his chest, cushion his wounds against something softer than the rough concrete against his back, warm him with his own body.  Run a hand through his sweaty hair and hold him close.

 

“Enjoy your time with your lover,” Skull said. “Though it seems unlikely to prove interesting.”  He sneered down at Tony’s unconscious body, kicking his thigh with one boot hard enough that Tony’s limp body shifted.  Tony didn’t make a sound.  “Still, appreciate what you have left of him.  You may not have another chance.”

 

Steve refused to dignify Skull’s threats with a response.  He kept his eyes fixed on Tony.

 

“Too bad,” Sanderson said, “if you don’t have chance to have a go at him after I broke him in for you.”

 

At that, all the hot rage boiled up inside Steve at once, and he snarled, rounding on him, tugging his chains as far as he could from the wall to let him lunge the slight distance he could manage at Sanderson. To his own bitter satisfaction, it was enough to have Sanderson jumping backward, though Steve couldn’t reach him. “Don't you dare talk about him,” he spat.

 

Sanderson looked unsettled, his face pale, but he recovered quickly enough, Steve supposed.  “As if you can do anything about it, Captain,” he returned, reaching over and running a hand through Tony’s sweat-damp hair, rocking his head limply on his neck as he did.  Tony’s head fell forward, held up just by Sanderson’s grip in his hair.

 

“Just wait and see,” Steve gritted out. It was true, he couldn’t do anything right then.  But that didn’t mean things would stay that way.  And if he ever saw this creep touch Tony again it would be too soon.  “A lot of people have underestimated me.”

 

Sanderson rolled his eyes at him and rolled Tony’s head back to smack, hard, against the wall as he let go.  “Too bad there won’t be too much left of your boyfriend there to see it after I’m done with him,” he said.

 

“If you honestly think any of this is going to matter to Tony beyond a few cuts and scrapes then you’re a bigger idiot than I realized,” Steve said.  “If you’re going, then go.”

 

“Eager to be alone, I see,” the Skull said. “Yes, sit here, Captain. Enjoy the solitude and your own helplessness.  Ponder what effect your _relationship_ with him has had on your lover, and your own inability to stop us from utilizing the unique properties of your blood.  Come, Sanderson.”

 

Finally, they left.  The other thugs in the room looked between Steve and Tony warily, and one of them came up to sneer at Steve and hit him, once in the face, once in the stomach.  Steve set his jaw and took it, ignoring their taunts until they followed Skull and Sanderson out the door.

 

Steve sighed, relaxing his muscles and working his jaw, sore where the last thug had hit him.  His neck was even sorer and felt stiff and puffy with bruises where they’d stuck him, blood drying sticky on his skin.  His guts ached, and he let himself make a face. It was uncomfortable, true enough, but nowhere near what they had done to Tony.

 

Tony was still out cold across the room, and as uneasy as Steve was about how much time they’d have to themselves, he was in no hurry to wake him.  At least he could maybe sleep off the last of that drug—that’d be something.  If nothing else, right now he wasn’t feeling it.

 

Steve sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, idly trying his chains one more time with no luck.  He had to come up with something else.  He couldn’t just rely on Tony.  Tony was hurt, and who knew how much worse things could get for him.  For them both. Steve should have a backup plan if things did continue to get worse, and Tony couldn’t put whatever he’d been working on into practice.  Steve tugged at the chains that held his ankles to the wall.

 

They didn’t budge.  All he could come up with was that they’d have to move him sometime. He felt slow, and stupid for it, but he couldn’t find a way to get free.  He felt like he should be able to, but he couldn’t.  Failing that, he’d have to wait.  Leaving them both chained in this concrete hole definitely wasn’t the end of Skull’s plans for them; that wasn’t like him at all.  No, he’d want to make a show out of them, especially Steve. So they’d move them out of here eventually.  Steve would have to wait to make his move then and hope he got a decent chance at it. He’d have to take the first chance he got, probably, no matter how bad it was.  They couldn’t just wait around any longer.  He’d have willingly broken his own ankle if he thought it would help to get him free of these chains, but he didn’t see what good it would do, so that was out.  That plan didn’t do much to help Tony, but he’d just have to hope he could fight to him and that even if Tony wasn’t in much of a condition to fight with him, he could get him out of there.

 

It wasn’t the greatest plan.  But it was all he could come up with.

 

“Well, this is a mess we’ve gotten ourselves into this time, isn’t it, Shellhead?” Steve asked, keeping his voice soft so as not to actually disturb Tony.   He stared at the ceiling of the small concrete box of a cell and blew his breath out.

 

Skull was right about one thing, at least. He hated this. He hated waiting, he hated this helplessness; he hated knowing Tony was sitting right over there, suffering and bleeding and in God only knew what condition because of him and here he was helpless to do a damn thing about it, or even think of a way to help him. The only thing he could think of to do was to let him sleep.  Let him rest. 

_I know you have a plan,_ Steve thought, bringing his eyes back down to look across the room at Tony’s unconscious body.  _I just wish I knew what it was._ He wished he knew if he should be worried about Tony’s unconsciousness, if that was a problem for whatever plan he had, or if it didn’t matter.

 

He wished he could think of something to do.

 

They’d screwed up, when it came right down to it. _Steve_ had screwed up, and that was the thing, the thing that was really bothering him, settling hot and leaden in his gut.  This really was his fault—if he hadn’t made the calls he had, they wouldn’t both be here now.  They’d been after Tony to begin with, but then he’d tagged along on Tony’s mission like a besotted idiot, and if he’d been paying a little bit more attention, maybe they wouldn’t have taken him out first.  If Tony hadn’t stuck around to try to help Steve, to get him out of their grasp, maybe he’d have been able to get away.  Steve’s mind hadn’t been in the game.  He’d thought it was a milk run, and—well, so had Tony, but Tony had been the first one to realize something was wrong.  He always was, it felt like at times, and his mind being linked up to every computer for miles around sure didn’t hurt that.  Steve hated that, felt like it took Tony’s focus away, like he wasn’t really seeing him when he talked to him, but—if it got them out of this, he’d say that for it.

 

And at least it had healed Tony’s heart. He didn’t like to think about the risk Tony would be running right now if it hadn’t, with his injuries and the strain on his body they’d produce.  God. It didn’t bear thinking about.

 

Steve opened and closed his hand in the manacle. It was still badly bruised from when they’d managed to get the shield away from him—he could feel the shock of it all the way up his arm, still, aching down to the bones. It wasn’t serious, and by the next morning the pain should be gone, but it might be a liability in an escape attempt, make his shield arm a little weaker, a few seconds slower.

 

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this,” he said, even more quietly, to Tony across the room.  He had no idea how the Skull had discovered they were involved—they hadn’t even informed most of the superhero community.  Partly to avoid incidents exactly like this, Steve thought with frustration. He wasn’t sure how good they’d been at keeping it a secret, but they’d been giving in their best shot. But they’d been going after Tony, the trap had been made for his armor, and it had overpowered even his new armor with its extra capabilities, so they must have planned some serious overkill. With the way they’d been talking—they’d wanted to use Tony against Steve all along.  To make them suffer for whatever imagined sins the Skull felt they’d committed. No, felt _he’d_ committed.  It had been clear that it was Steve’s proclivities the Skull felt the most personally insulted by.  Tony was apparently a . . . well, whatever they thought of him. The insulting things they’d said. Steve could feel the anger rising in him again at the thought of it.  The way they’d talked about Tony, the way they’d acted like his behavior and his sexuality were somehow related, the—just all of it. It was disgusting. He knew Tony knew better, but he—he just hoped he wouldn’t take it to heart.  He deserved so much better.  Than all of this. 

 

Steve sighed, let his head sag forward. “This is exactly what I didn’t want,” he murmured to himself.

 

It didn’t make being with Tony not worth it. Of course not. Nothing could do that. Not ever.  But . . . it was different than being with a civilian, and bringing them into all this, of course, Steve had been there, and he knew the risks of that all too well.  He wouldn’t say he’d never do it again—but it wasn’t exactly fair, to put someone in danger like that.  Tony knew the risks, already shared them, gladly, but Steve had still feared exactly this—that opponents who wanted to get at either of them would leap at the chance to use them against each other.

 

The problem was really that he wasn’t any good at bearing Tony’s pain.  It got to him so quick.  Steve refused to feel ashamed of that, because of course he cared, how _could_ he bear to see Tony hurt like that—but it had been a weakness, and he knew the Skull had seen it in him.  It was that weakness that had led Skull to do to Tony all the things he had. And more than anything else, that was what Steve was afraid of.  His own reactions, his own lack of control, spurring them on.  He’d wondered if they’d been planning to hurt and humiliate Tony like this all along, or if his presence had driven them to take it farther, and—

 

But he didn’t want to just sit here blaming himself, feeling sorry for himself because of it.  He needed to be ready, for whatever happened next.  He still wasn’t sure why the Skull had wanted his blood and undoubtedly the serum in it, but he didn’t like anything about the thought of him having it.  Just one more thing he was going to have to figure out how to deal with before they got out of here. Obviously, he couldn’t leave them with it.

 

He tried to focus, to at least get a good sense of the dimensions of the cell and the hallway, try to measure the thickness of the walls, and what he could see and remembered of the security on the way in, but it was hard to focus with Tony slumped unconscious across from him, still covered in his own blood and bleeding sluggishly from his wounds, his harsh rasping breaths, even in unconsciousness, after what Sanderson had done to his throat.  His skin was still so pale, with a slight greyish tinge under his beard, under the blood and slowly darkening bruises, and Steve had no doubt he was in shock, and not just because of the way he’d passed out.  This whole thing had just been so damn awful for Tony.  Steve was sure he could take it.  He didn’t doubt that.  It was just . . . nothing Steve had ever wanted to see him have to take. And not because of him.

 

God.  He had to stop dwelling on this.  Skull was getting to him; it was exactly what he’d wanted.  Steve took a deep breath, leaned his head back against the wall.

 

Focus.  Focus, Rogers.

 

Right. 

 

He did his best, but he still found himself counting the rhythms of Tony’s breathing in the back of his mind, as if to reassure himself. He felt hyper aware of every shift of Tony’s head, of his body, the little twitches of his feet, his tiny shivers, still stretching his hearing until he could pick up on the beating of his heart, even the way his breathing eased and deepened slightly with time. He let out a breath of relief of his own when he could hear Tony breathing more easily.  That was good, he thought; that was good. Tony’s breaths had lost that desperate, distressed rasping tinge, though they still sounded a bit rough. He could see deep bruises beneath the more recent ones forming on his skin, from the fight that had ended them up here, already turning color, deep violet-black and swollen on his pale skin. Tony was going to be black and blue all over in another day or so, and feel goddamn awful with it. They all knew how to deal with that kind of thing, were almost used to it, but it was still miserable, and Tony was covered in cuts and welts on top of it.  He would hurt like hell, all over, no way around it.

 

And that was only if they managed to get out of here.

 

_C’mon, Rogers, no defeatist talk.  Chin up; keep your mind in the game._

 

He sighed.  It was just hard to sit and wait like this.  He’d never been good at it.  He liked action, liked to be moving, doing.  That was what he was good at.  The Skull had been right about that much, at least, if he was trying to get to him with this.  Just having to watch Tony lie there, unconscious . . . .  It was awful.

 

\-----

 

It had been about fifteen minutes, maybe a few more, before there was an obvious change in Tony.  His breathing shifted, catching in his throat and then smoothing out, and he gave a soft groan.  His legs twitched, making his chains rattle, and his head shifted slightly against the wall, until his cheek came up against the concrete.  He groaned again.  Steve’s eyes were on him instantly, half-holding his breath, so he saw Tony’s eyes flutter once, twice, heavy lashes flicking against his cheeks, saw him close them again and give another groan low in his chest, very soft, as if meant just for his own ears.  Tony pressed his cheek closer against the cool concrete and blew out a low, unsteady breath.

 

Steve waited, not sure if Tony was actually regaining consciousness or just coming up for a second.  He wanted him to sleep, if he could.  But instead, Tony blew his breath out again, as if measuring it, then sucked a breath in and held it, breathing it out softly one more time before his eyes opened fully, and he raised his head, slowly and very carefully, like he was dizzy and wanted to be certain of his movements.

 

“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse and scratchy, barely above a whisper, but Steve could see the little quirk at one corner of his mouth, almost a smile.

 

“Hey,” he said back, low, and smiled himself, trying to be reassuring, to keep it warm, reveal his pleasure and relief at seeing Tony awake again, not the anxiety twisting in his belly or the ache at knowing he was in pain.  “How you feelin’?”

 

“Oh, you know,” Tony said, still hoarse and rough, the smile growing, that side of his mouth ticking up a little more. “Been better, been worse.”

 

Steve felt all the tension twisting up inside him escape in his short, startled little laugh at that.  “Oh, yeah?” he said.

 

“Oh, yeah,” Tony answered, his eyes warm despite how pale he still was, his lips as gray as his face.  “Though, I mean.  On the bad side.  I probably haven’t felt this bad since I went on a bender in Vegas and woke up under the bar in some dingy Manhattan club surrounded by a bunch of dancers and using a bottle as a pillow.”  He smiled a little more, so that his eyes crinkled up.  “But, you know, it’s doable.”

 

Steve huffed out a breath, felt himself go a little red in the face.  “Tony,” he said. “Please.”

 

Tony grinned.  “That’s better,” he said in that hoarse, husky whisper.  “Hate seeing that sad look in your pretty blue eyes, honeymuffin.”

 

Steve felt his face heat up even more. “So you’re trying to get a rise out of me?” he said.

 

“I was trying to piss you off,” Tony said, and laughed softly, then groaned, made a face and went quiet.

 

“Shh,” Steve said.  “Try to stay quiet.”

 

Tony shook his head, shrugging it off. “’m all right,” he said quietly. “’m all right. Just.”

 

“Shh, I know,” Steve said.  “Try to rest.  If you can. Is the drug wearing off?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony said shortly.  “Barely.  Vision still a little—” he blinked.  “Well, starry around the edges, now.  Better, though.” He took a deep breath, blew it out again. “’m okay.”

 

“You said that,” Steve said, quiet. And they both knew it was only barely true, at best.  But that wasn’t the point. Tony was telling Steve he could take it. And Steve—he knew that. He did.  He just hated it.  All of it. “Take it easy,” he said.

 

“Mmhm,” Tony said, voice still low, slow and scratchy. “Will do, boss. With any luck I’ll need my strength for when we get out of here.”  He smiled a little more at Steve, then let his head fall back against the wall.

 

“Count on it,” Steve said.  He shifted his shoulders, tried to loosen up.

 

“How are you holding up?” Tony asked, his voice even quieter.

 

Steve worked his jaw, tried not to let on too much. “They haven’t really even touched me,” he said.

 

“That’s not what I asked,” Tony said, quiet and scratchy. He looked up to see Tony looking right at him. He met Steve’s gaze fearlessly, and his eyes were soft, warm, somehow knowing.  Steve felt his breath hitch in his throat, and it was suddenly hard to swallow.

 

“I’m fine,” he said, blinking as he looked away, setting his jaw again.

 

“You really—” Tony coughed a little, turned his head away until he had his voice back under his control, and said, a little rougher “—expect me to fall for that?  You think I don’t know you at all, Rogers?”

 

“I’ll be all right when we get out of here,” Steve said, more honestly, and more firmly, though he knew his voice still sounded thick and rough now, too.  “Don’t try to talk,” he added.

 

“My throat’s feeling a lot better now,” Tony said. “Honestly.”

 

“Well, it doesn’t sound like it,” Steve said.

 

Tony smiled a little at that, battered face creasing in a grin.  “Well, it is, I promise,” he said, tugged at his arms, then sighed.  They had to be agony by now, even if they weren’t taking his weight anymore, Steve thought with a pang of sympathy.

 

“Still,” he said.  “Take it easy.  That’s an order, Avenger.”

 

“Not like I have much choice,” Tony said, even as a shiver passed through him.  “I’m just sitting here.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve allowed, looking down. “But I mean it. You took a beating back there.”

 

“I’ve had worse, Steve,” Tony said. “It’s all right.”

 

Steve bit back the angry words that rose to his lips immediately, the shout of _it’s_ not _all right, Tony!_ That wouldn’t help. He blew his breath out, but couldn’t stop his hands clenching into fists above his head.  “You shouldn’t be the one having to comfort me,” he finally managed to get out, stiffly, from between his teeth.

 

“Who cares about that?” Tony said. “I thought this relationship went both ways.”

 

“It does,” Steve said, “it does. I just . . .”

 

“You just nothing,” Tony said, and his voice was clipped, almost frosty.  Steve swallowed. “Don’t you dare shut me out, just because I’m the one who’s getting beaten up on.  You hear me?”  He coughed again, and pressed his face against his arm.

 

“Okay, okay,” Steve agreed hastily, feeling his heart wrench in his chest.  Fighting with him, Tony feeling like he was pushing him away—that wasn’t what he wanted, not at all. “Copy that.  I—I’m sorry.”

 

“Hmph,” Tony said, and closed his eyes, letting his head sag into his arm, just a bit.  “You should be.”

 

Steve gave a wrenching little smile. “I am,” he said. “I swear.”  He wanted to hold him so damn badly that his throat hurt with it.

 

“Good,” Tony said, and let his eyes stay closed. They stayed like that for a while, and the ache progressed into Steve’s chest, seemed to spread until it was taking it all up with that hurt, making him feel like he was bruised from the inside out.  He bit his lip and looked down at his own boots.  He was still standing here in his uniform and his boots while Tony was naked. His throat, his chest hurt worse. It was so unfair. He just—he wanted—but wasn’t it selfish to wish that Tony was in his position, too?  Tony would hate seeing Steve hurt, just as much. His throat hurt so badly that he squeezed his eyes shut, just for a moment.

 

When he looked back up, Tony was looking back toward him again.  “So,” Tony said in that soft rasp, “how are you doing, sweetie pie?  Really.”

 

Steve sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.  “They took my blood,” he said, and it came out sounding flat and heavy. “Did you see?”

 

Tony swallowed, Steve could hear it, and his voice when it came again was husky and thick, even more than it had been. “Yeah,” he said. “I saw.”

 

Steve should have known Tony would have been aware of it, would have been watching, despite his own pain at the time, despite what they had been doing to him.  He was always aware.  Especially with Extremis, but even before, even before then, he had always been aware of what was going on around him.  “We’ll have to handle that,” he said.  “I—I can’t let him—them, I can’t.  We—”

 

“We will,” Tony said, with soft, absolute certainty, and closed his eyes again.  “We will, gorgeous.”

 

Steve swallowed, pushed down the tight knot of anxiety and anger in his chest, got control of his breathing, forced his jaw to loosen.  “Yessir,” he said.

 

“That’s it,” Tony said, still soft, with his eyes closed.  “Steve—whatever happens, sweetheart, just know I’m gonna be all right.  We’re both gonna be all right.  We’re going to get out of this together and . . . and then maybe we’ll just take a day for ourselves.  A real date this time.  Kind of a mini-vacation.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

 

Steve swallowed hard, feeling his throat close up, emotion, hot and hard, surging up in it, making his face warm. “Yeah,” he choked out. “I really would.” It was something he’d been selfishly wanting for weeks now, jealously resenting Extremis for taking Tony’s time and attention away from him, just wanting his focus, his attention. In the end, that was probably why he’d tagged along on Tony’s mission today.  Just wanting to be with him . . . .  He felt like that a lot, like what he wanted more than anything with Tony was just his time, his attention.  Like Tony had so many other places to spend it that it was the most precious thing he could receive from him, and that—

 

That was all he wanted.

 

“I know,” Tony said, and his rough voice was soft and warm.  “It’s all right, Steve, honey.  It’s going to be all right. I promise.  You hear me?  I promise.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said.  He blinked, firmly, opened his eyes and made himself smile across at Tony.  Tony must have felt it, because he opened his eyes, and then just smiled, a little, but a real one, back. “Yeah, it’s gonna be all right. That’s a promise.”

 

For the first time since Tony had passed out, Steve looked into his eyes and really believed that, feeling some of the tight knot of anxiety in his belly unwind, just a little.

 

\-----

 

For a while after that, they were quiet again. Tony kept his eyes closed, and Steve had the idea that he was working, using Extremis for . . . something. He wasn’t certain what. It had been more than an hour before he heard those booted footsteps in the corridor again, coming toward their cell with some purpose.  Tony was still looking pale, and weak, but his heartbeat sounded even and his breathing was good, so Steve wasn’t all that worried about his condition as it was, despite the concern that made his heart twist in his chest.  Tony was all right for now, but he wasn’t sure what they’d do to him next.  He knew Tony heard them coming; his body stiffened and his shoulders squared, but he didn’t open his eyes, not even when the door burst open.  The Skull came in, his boots clicking neatly on the floor, as always. Sometimes Steve heard the drumming click of bootheels with Nazi precision even in his dreams, as if that were the one thing that summed them up for him, eternally.

 

“Skull,” he said.  “You’re back.”  Tony’s eyes opened from across the room.

 

“I am,” the Skull said, and smiled. He turned to Tony and feigned pleased surprise.  It came off as fake, but that was no doubt the intention.  “Ah, I see your lover is awake.  I hope you enjoyed your time together after all.”

 

Tony didn't speak, and Steve didn’t either. The Skull shrugged. “Ah, well, either way. It’s hard to say one way or another what will happen to him next.  These could be his last moments.  It’s difficult to say.”

 

“Why,” Steve said flatly.  “I thought your point in all this was that you had the power here.”

 

The Skull grinned and actually rubbed his hands together.  Sometimes with him Steve got the feeling they’d stepped into some kind of twisted cartoon, and he was feeling it now, looking at that gleeful expression on the Skull’s face. “Well, you see,” he said. “Stark here has the opportunity to be uniquely useful to me, but he may not survive it. Very few do, as I understand. And rather than wasting one of my great army—” he gestured back at the four goons who had followed him in, and Steve didn’t bother to resist rolling his eyes, even though Sanderson was one of them, which already had rage building in his belly again “—your lover will do the honors.”  He smiled a little bit wider still.  “If he survives, of course, we will see about revealing your liaison to the public. Even if he goes mad. That would surely make for an interesting story in your press, would it not?  If he does not survive . . . well, I’m sure you will have other things to worry about.”

 

Steve felt his heart stop in his throat. _Please, no_.  They weren’t going to inject Tony with the serum—what would that even do to him, with Extremis in his bloodstream, what—it was like a nightmare, his own worst nightmare, like they’d plucked it right out of his head.  His stomach turned over, twisted in his gut, he felt cold and dizzy. But begging hadn’t worked before, and it would only make the Skull more pleased with the idea now, he was sure of it.  Steve swallowed. “The serum,” he said, trying to think of something to do, to say, anything he could say.  “Really?  You’re going to inject him with the serum?  What if it works?  Then you’ll have two super soldiers to contend with, and one of them will be Iron Man.”

 

The Skull sneered.  “The super soldier I have in front of me hasn’t managed to do much to free himself,” he said.  “Why should I be frightened by another?  Besides, from what I understand, that outcome is . . . unlikely, to say the least. Even if it is stable in his body, it won’t be for long.  Once he meets a gruesome end like most of his fellows, I count on being able to dissect his corpse for information to refine our own version of the serum, make it even more glorious for the use of our great army.”

 

So that was what this was about. God.  Aside from their sexualities, obviously, and humiliating them for it.  And tormenting Steve. Which was obviously the main aim. Steve swallowed. “Tony’s stronger than you think,” he said quietly, not looking away from the Skull.  “Don’t count him out.”  But God, what would happen to him if they injected him with Steve’s blood—a chill went through him as he thought about all the other poor souls who had tried to replicate the serum, that chain of madness and death that had started even before him.  He couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to Tony.  He felt sick and cold; he was certain he had gone pale.

 

If he had thought it would have helped it all, he would have gotten down on his knees and begged in that moment. Without hesitating, without question. But he knew that it wouldn’t.

 

“Even so,” the Skull said, sounding bored, and waved Sanderson forward.

 

“It’s too bad,” he said, and brushed Tony’s hair back out of his face in a parody of tenderness, running his hand over his face and rubbing his thumb along one of the cuts in a way that made Tony give a short burst of air, his face utterly still otherwise, blank, as he sidled up alongside him.  “I won’t get a chance to play with him anymore after this.”  He grinned back at Steve.  “And I was just getting started.”

 

Tony’s eyes were open and fixed on Steve, and Steve struggled to push down the anger that welled up in him at Sanderson’s words.  The man was a creep who got pleasure from the pain of others.  Steve wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.  Sanderson scowled and fisted his hand in Tony’s hair, dragging his head back.  Tony gasped, lightly, but was quiet otherwise.  From this perspective, Steve could see the way Tony’s throat was beginning to swell, the red marks and bruises, all too well.

 

The Skull handed Sanderson the syringe. Tony’s eyes were still on Steve.

 

“Tony,” Steve said, quickly, desperately, ignoring all the rest of them.  “I love you. Know that.  Be strong.”

 

Tony worked his jaw, moistened his lips. His voice came out in a croak. “Right back atcha, Steve,” he said. “Always, sweetheart.”

 

“Aww, how sweet,” Sanderson crooned. “But it’s not going to save him. Say goodbye, Cap.”

 

He jammed the syringe into Tony’s neck and depressed the plunger.  Tony pressed his eyes shut and turned his head to the side, bit down on his bottom lip. Steve felt like he couldn’t breathe.

 

Sanderson pulled out the syringe and watched Tony as if breathless.  “It’s done, sir,” he said.

 

“So I see,” the Skull said, dryly. He was watching Steve. “How do you feel now, Captain?” he asked.  “Knowing your whore is as good as dead.”

 

Steve didn’t respond.  He had his eyes fixed on Tony.  He could see the breathless way he started to pant, the cold sweat breaking out on his face, on his skin.  He was in pain.  Of course he was, it had hurt like hell when they’d done it to Steve, Vita-Rays and all, but—

 

How would the serum interact with Extremis? There were a good few minutes of silence. Steve still felt like he was holding his breath.  The Skull continued to taunt Steve, voice silky and insinuating, and Steve ignored him, eyes fixed on Tony as his chest started to heave.  Sanderson slid his hand back into Tony’s hair, slapped him around a little, and Steve wanted to shove him away, punch his face in, with a violence that surprised even him.

 

Tony whimpered, groaned, tossed his head against the wall.  His breathing was coming faster and faster now, wobbling and uneven.  Steve felt as if he were hardly breathing, either, and he could feel his fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to stay calm. He felt dizzy, panicky—what would the serum do to Tony, and there was nothing, nothing he could do, nothing at all—Tony might die in front of him and there would be nothing he could do. He felt sick, like he might throw up, but forced it down.

 

When Tony started to scream, it felt like the worst thing Steve had ever heard.  The nausea came back full force, heaving inside him, and he felt dizzy. Tony had obviously held it back until he just couldn’t do it anymore, and the raw, ragged scream that left his lips felt like it had reached into Steve’s belly and yanked at his guts. Tony screamed and screamed, his voice already hoarse and rough from before, throat obviously screamed raw, but he didn’t stop, throwing his head back against the wall, fighting his chains and writhing.  Steve felt sick, and his vision blurred.  He thought, vaguely, that whatever his face looked like right now must be awful satisfying for Skull, but the thought passed.  He didn’t care, with Tony in that kind of pain right in front of him, his back arching with it, face screwed up in a rictus of agony.  It didn’t matter.  Tony might die, right there in front of him.  He was in agony, and Steve couldn’t do anything to help him. Nothing else mattered, in the face of that.

 

Steve felt like he could feel the over-quick way Tony’s heart was beating, pounding too hard, in his own chest. His stomach twisted even as he struggled to clear his vision, to get a hold on himself.  He needed to be strong for Tony.  It was the only thing he could do for him right then. “Tony,” he said, or more yelled it, over Tony’s own screams.  “Just hang in there!  It’s going to be all right! You can do this, you can get through this!”

 

Tony blinked, his head shifting against the wall. He swallowed another scream, chest heaving and his throat working painfully, looked across toward Steve, met his eyes, nodded a little, then tipped his head back again, face tightening with the pain.

 

“You can do this,” Steve said, “you can do this, Tony.”

 

Tony whimpered, low, under his breath, twisting in his bonds again.  He was panting, harsh and heavy, pressing his head back against the wall.

 

“I’m sure you remember the agony well, Captain,” the Skull said, and he did sound satisfied.

 

Steve did, he sure did, and he could imagine all too well what Tony was going through right now.  Still, Tony’s reactions made him think it was a bit different from what he himself had experienced, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

 

“As amusing as it would be to stay and watch, I’m afraid I have a great many things to do,” the Skull said. “But you won’t lack for company. Sanderson, Baker, stay here. I will be back later, Captain. To collect Stark’s body, I’m sure.”

 

Steve swallowed.  “We’ll see,” he said.  The Skull laughed as he left, the thugs, other than Sanderson and a blond giant Steve assumed was Baker.  Tony made another noise of pain, his back arching against the wall, and Sanderson smirked.

 

“Now we’ve got some privacy,” he said. “Such as it is.” Baker crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against the door, apparently content to watch. Just two guards. The Skull must have really thought they were helpless—there had been twelve guards for each of them at first. Steve wasn’t sure what he was going to do to take advantage of that, seeing as his chains were still holding firm, but he was sure there was some way they could use that in their favor, even if it was through trickery.

 

The problem was that Tony was better at that kind of thing than he was.  But Steve wasn’t exactly a slouch, either, and no one ever expected him to try something subtle or less than completely honest, which was an advantage.  He didn’t have Tony’s reputation for smarts. He just had to think of something.

 

“Skull must like you,” Steve said to Sanderson. It made him feel sick, but he made himself say it anyway.  “To indulge your little obsession like this.”

 

Sanderson turned around, stared at him. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

 

“With Tony,” Steve said.  “You feel like you’re a big man because you can hurt him, but he’d never give you the time of day otherwise.  What, that get under your skin?”

 

“Why, because he has a man like you?” Sanderson sneered.  “Is that what you’re gonna tell me?  Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you haven’t been able to save yourself, let alone him, big man.”

 

“Got nothing to do with me,” Steve said. “You’re just not Tony’s type. He doesn’t go for psychopathic sadists with a perverted streak.  Especially not the ones running after the heels of petty, tinpot dictators, just hoping they’ll have a chance to live out their perverted fantasies on a real person sooner or later.”

 

Working for Skull, Steve was betting Sanderson wouldn’t like being called out for what he was.  And he was right.  He could see him getting hot under the collar.  “I am _not_ perverted,” he said, stalking over toward Steve, “not that a boy scout like you would know anything about that—”

 

And that was when what sounded like every alarm in the place went off at once.  Steve jumped about a foot, but that was nothing compared to how Sanderson and Baker reacted.

 

Damn, Steve had _known_ Tony was up to something, but what—

 

“Go check it out,” Sanderson ordered Baker, sounding frantic.  “I’ll stay here.”

 

“But—” Baker started.  “The Fuhrer ordered me to—”

 

“Just do it!” Sanderson snapped. “I want to know what’s going on.” He gave Baker a look that must have convinced him, because he responded with a, “Yes, sir,” and fumbled with the door, leaving the room at a run.

 

Huh.  Only one left.  Sanderson was turning back toward Steve, starting toward him with a snarl, when the wall busted in over Tony’s head.

 

It was nothing Steve had ever seen coming, and it left the small dungeon of a room in pure chaos.  He could see Tony duck forward, getting his head down, a fraction of a second before it happened, so he’d known it was coming, had something to do with it.  A moment later, there were fragments of concrete raining down around them and a rush of water gushing out of a hole in the wall about two feet above where Tony had been left chained.

 

Tony was moving before Steve had ever expected it, slow and uncoordinated, but still, rolling out from under the debris and grabbing up Steve’s shield as he went.  Steve had thought he was practically unconscious.  Tony threw himself clumsily into Sanderson’s legs and they both ended up in the water on the floor as more and more gushed into the room and concrete dust covered them in muddy grit.  Tony hit Sanderson in the face, hard, with Steve’s shield, and he fell back into the water.  Tony was panting, shaking, barely able to keep himself up, but Steve still saw him look at the shield, visibly consider, and then hit Sanderson again.  He fisted his hands in the man’s shirt and with a gigantic effort that had him groaning, dragged him up out of the water and shoved him into the wall.  “Tony!” Steve shouted. “Tony—”

 

Tony got up to his knees, slowly, trembling as he did it, and crawled over to him, through the water, dragging the shield with him.

 

“Tony,” Steve said, “oh, my God, Tony, I knew it, I knew you would do it, I knew you would do something—” he was babbling, he knew that, he probably barely made sense, euphoria and adrenaline shivering through him in equal measure, leaving him lightheaded.

 

Tony reached him, still gasping and shaking, and straightened up enough to press his face into Steve’s hip, fingers clenched around his belt.  His head felt heavy and wet and warm and the touch had Steve’s throat clenching up almost too tightly to breathe.

 

“Come on, just keep moving, Avenger,” he said. Tony’s back was trembling, shuddering all down his spine.

 

“Yessir,” he mumbled, slurring it into Steve’s side, then dragged himself to his feet, bracing himself on Steve, and lifted the shield. Steve heard it clang against the metal around his wrist, once, twice, and then his arm was free. He grabbed the shield with a brief ‘thank you,’ and Tony sagged against his chest, even as Steve brought the shield up to break through the metal binding his other wrist. It felt incredibly good as the chains fell away from his arms, and he was able to shake off the chain looped around his middle.  He wrapped one arm around Tony’s waist as he drooped, holding him tight, and pressed his mouth into his sopping wet, gritty hair.  Tony groaned, still shaking against Steve.

 

“I’ve got you now,” Steve said, and moved his mouth to press it against Tony’s temple, a kiss and a promise at once against the muddy skin. “I’ve got you.”

 

“Steve,” Tony said, his voice breathless and broken, and Steve held him up even as he bent to free first one of his ankles, then the other, with the shield, holding him close as he did, still marveling at the relief as his arm moved easily, at the weight and solidity of Tony’s body in his arms.  He slid the shield onto his arm, wincing at the weight as it pulled on the sore spots, relieved that Tony’s blood had been mostly washed off it by the water, and then curled that arm around Tony’s back, too.

 

“God,” he breathed, “are you all right, what’s—what’s it doing to you, are you—can you tell me—do you—”

 

“’S fine,” Tony mumbled, muffled against his shoulder, his chest.  He coughed, groaned, a shudder passing through his body as he stiffened.  “It’s . . . Extremis is a, a derivative of the serum already, s-so my body is rejecting it.  I’ll be fine, it just has to, to work its way out of my system and—” he groaned again, but when he spoke after there was a note of levity in his hoarse, trembling voice “—and apparently that’s painful.  Extremis allows me to—to monitor, I know—I’m.  I’m not dying, Steve.  Might not be good for much for a while, though, I—I’m sorry.”  His head sagged forward against Steve’s shoulder, as if saying all that had taken a lot out of him, and Steve was bringing his hand up to support the back of his head before he even thought.

 

“Don’t worry about that,” he said with a breathless, disbelieving little laugh.  “Don’t you dare apologize for that.  It’s fine. You did your part. Now it’s my turn.”

 

“Should be kind of—kind of a mess out there,” Tony said, laughing a bit himself, and then groaning, trembling against Steve again. “I think I turned on every system they have.  Turned on the water until the pipes burst.  And they have about fourteen cascading system failures on—on top of it. Every virus I could manage to upload to their computer systems.”  He sounded smug, through the strain, and after all, why shouldn’t he? Steve thought, he’d just done a number on the Skull’s set-up here while chained to a wall and being tortured.  He shivered in Steve’s arms. “I also jury-rigged—the—the distress signal in my armor,” he said, “but I had to route it through about fifteen systems to bounce it through without them detecting it so—so it might be a while.”

 

“You were hard at work,” Steve said, stroking his hand through Tony’s wet hair almost without thinking about it, careful to be gentle with how sore his head must be.

 

“Yeah, well, y-you know what they say,” Tony said, voice thin and thready.  “All work and no play.”

 

“There’s never a dull moment with you, Stark,” Steve said, warmly incredulous.  He patted the back of Tony’s neck, gently, rubbed his thumb along his hairline, up into his hair.  God, just holding him, his wet, shaking body against his own.  It felt like heaven.  He buried his face in Tony’s hair again, just for a moment, locked his arm in at his back, against his waist, careful not to let it press too hard. Tony gave a little oof of a groan, and then his arm was settling around Steve’s back in turn, and he pushed his face into Steve’s shoulder, pressing himself into the embrace like he didn’t care at all about the pain of his injuries.  Steve hugged him a little tighter, letting himself wrap his arms around him just that little bit more firmly, bring him just a little closer. He could feel Tony’s heart beating against his chest now, just barely through the scale mail and thick fabric of his own uniform, but still feel it, more through his hand on Tony’s back then anything.  He moved his thumb through his hair and just held him for a long few moments.  The water had mostly slowed now and was sloshing around their legs. It was oddly warm, which Steve was glad of—the last thing Tony needed was icy water chilling him further. He slid his arm farther around him and pressed his face further into Tony’s hair, letting his own breaths start to even out, holding him close, his hand at the back of his neck. Steve closed his eyes, just for a moment.

 

He had him.  Things were going to be all right.

 

It was just another few moments before Tony took in a shuddering breath and shifted in his arms, and Steve let his hold loosen in response. “Can we—” Tony’s voice was breathy, and he sighed, took in a breath, blew it out, before he spoke again “—let’s get out of here, Steve.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, and his own voice came out sounding husky.  “Sure thing.” He let his hand linger, stroking down along the back of Tony’s neck as he brought it away, sliding his arm around Tony’s back, along his waist where his arms had protected his poor raw back from the worst of the flogging.  Tony hissed painfully as he was moved and Steve could already tell there was next to no strength in his legs, but he simply couldn’t spare the other arm. He tugged him a little closer, and he would have lifted Tony’s arm over his own shoulders, but after how Tony had been chained, he was certain that would put him in agony. “Can you stand?” he asked.

 

“Y-yeah,” Tony said shakily.  “At the moment, anyway.”  He groaned, and his knees buckled.  He tried to grab onto Steve, but his arm wobbled like it hurt to lift and there was no strength in his grip on Steve’s uniform.  Only Steve grabbing for him with his other hand kept him up. “Damn,” he groaned. “Maybe not.”

 

“I’ve got you,” Steve said again. Tony groaned again, trembling against Steve so that he could feel it, and his eyes slid closed. He braced his forehead on Steve’s shoulder, his face twisting up with pain.  He was gasping heavily, like he wasn't getting any air. “Hey,” Steve said. He reached forward, touched Tony’s chin with the barest brush of his fingers, tilted his head up and into Steve’s neck so that his panting breaths came warm against the skin of his throat. He touched an uninjured spot on Tony’s bloodied chest, trying to ease his breathing just through the touches, give him something to focus on other than the pain.  “I’ve got you.  I can carry you.”

 

“You’ll—you’ll need to fight,” Tony said, unsteadily. His voice was breathy and groaning, muffled by where his face was tucked into Steve’s neck.

 

“I will,” Steve said.  “I can put you down.  It’ll be okay.”  He rubbed at the side of Tony’s neck, holding him so that his face pressed in close against his own neck now, avoiding the bleeding cuts.  Tony breathed unevenly against his neck, hot puffs of breath.

 

“I can . . .” he groaned, “I—I’ll figure something out.”

 

“No need,” Steve told him.  “It’ll be fine.”  He looked toward Sanderson, but he was still out cold, and the water was no longer rising. He should be fine.

 

His fist clenched against the shield, and he had to admit that he’d half wished he would regain consciousness, so he’d have a chance to hit him again, himself this time.  That wasn’t . . . right, and he knew it, but it was hard to force down the urge. He turned back, pressed a kiss against the top of Tony’s head again, into his hair, curling his hand against his neck to hold him steady there.  “Just want to get you out of here,” he said.

 

Tony was silent for a moment, still panting harshly against Steve’s neck, shuddering and twitching a bit as if still in pain. “Yeah, okay,” he said, eventually, then groaned, ragged and hurting against Steve’s neck.

 

“It’s no problem,” Steve told him again, pulling his cowl back up over his head before shifting him to his other shoulder, so he could slide his shield arm up to clasp it around Tony’s shoulders and bent to slide the other under his knees, careful to keep the hold on his shoulders light until the last possible moment before he hoisted him up and in against his chest.  He came easily—Tony was muscular and there was always a moment when Steve was half surprised by his weight, but with Steve’s strength it was easy to lift him.  Tony hissed, bit down on it, a brief, low, noise of pain escaping him, then pushed himself in against Steve’s shoulder, against his neck again, sliding one arm around Steve’s shoulders and holding to his neck with his other hand. He hissed as he moved his arms, and his arms trembled, his grip still weak, but Steve still appreciated that he was trying to do his best to keep himself up.

 

There were footsteps outside the door, in the hallway. Steve immediately shifted Tony up, moving him further into his shoulder as he slid his shield down his arm and into his hand, got ready to throw, moving back from the door.  Tony must have heard it, too; he ducked his head in against Steve’s neck and stayed very still, making it easy for Steve to center himself and get ready to move.

 

“What the hell is going on, Sanderson?” The door opened a moment later, and a very confused looking Baker strode in.  “Alarms all over the damn place, everything falling apart, I swear. We’re supposed to move the prisoners—oh—shit—”

 

He didn’t have much time to react before Steve’s shield was slamming into his face, knocking him out cold on his back. Steve caught the shield and threw it again so it wedged in the door before it could close on them. He wasn’t certain if either Baker or Sanderson had the keys, and he’d rather not risk losing their way out. He didn’t set Tony down, but Tony let go of his neck and shifted out of his grip as Steve knelt to drag Baker up out of the water, and he had to admit it was easier to move him as Tony settled onto his knees, gasping but seeming steady enough.  He dropped him against the other wall and started going through his pockets.  He found a set of keycards, though who knew if they would work with Tony’s attacks on their systems, took them and his gun, and moved over to go through Sanderson’s pockets the same way.

 

He found a black keycard on him and pocketed that in his belt, and then took his communicator, on top of it. It seemed like it might come in handy, after all.  If nothing else, Tony could take it apart and play with it later, and it was better than Sanderson having it. He also took his gun, while he was at it, and pulled his knife to break it beneath his boot and kick the pieces away under the water.  Tony took a breath and blew it out.  Steve didn’t remark on it, just turned to him and handed him one of the guns, after being certain the safety was on.  Tony took it, prying his eyes open with what looked like an effort, but checked it over expertly and then nodded, looking up at Steve.  Steve just lifted him again, not commenting on the water it sent splashing all over both of them, but still concerned about Tony naked, with his wet skin. Tony wrapped his arms around him once more and laid his head on his shoulder, face against his neck and breathing unsteadily.  He was clearly still in agony from the serum.  Steve wondered how long it would take to move through his system—how long he would be suffering like this, and wondered, too, if the Skull had realized how effective a torture this would be for them both, Tony in agony and Steve having to watch it and knowing it was because of _his blood_ , because of the serum that had made him who he was. Tony so damn battered that touching him hurt him, practically, on top of all of it.  Steve steadied him, contenting himself with one more gentle pass of his hand over the back of Tony’s head, more to comfort himself than anything, then made sure he was secure and started over to the door to wedge his foot against it and pull out his shield, holding it at the ready as he let the door to the cell close behind him.

 

It felt almost strange to be standing out in the corridor they had dragged them down before they’d thrown them into the cell, what must have been hours ago.  Steve had been barely conscious at the time, fighting whatever they’d gotten him with at the scene, some device that had attached to the back of his neck and shot him up with something whenever he felt like his mind was clearing. When they’d taken it off him he’d vomited right where he lay, and it had been a long time since he’d done something like that, or felt that sick.  So he barely remembered being brought here, which wasn’t that helpful in terms of figuring out which way to go to get them out.  With Tony in the condition he was in, Steve didn’t want to waste a lot of time checking every potential avenue, but he wasn’t sure if he saw a lot of other choice—

 

“Left,” Tony grunted against his neck, raising his head just the barest bit, as if to double check where they were standing in the corridor.  “You want left.”

 

“Are you sure?” Steve hesitated. He could have sworn they’d come down the right side of the corridor, what little he remembered. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Tony, of course he did, and Tony was probably right, but—

 

“Took our stuff left,” Tony mumbled in what was barely more than a whisper.

 

Oh.  That made sense. “Can you use the suit?” Steve asked, suddenly. What with Extremis—but he still wasn’t quite sure how that worked, and—

 

“Not—not just yet,” Tony said, groaning. “Don’t want to strain Extremis right now.  And it’s—it’s like static in my head, everything h-hurts—” his voice broke and trailed off. “I’ll try,” he said, a moment later. “Hold on.”

 

“No, no, don’t!” Steve said, quickly. “Don’t.  Don’t strain yourself.”  He slid his hand up, let his palm curve against the back of Tony’s head, his fingers slid into his hair.  “Don’t,” he said again.

 

“Are you sure?” Tony mumbled, his voice scratchy. “I might be able to.”

 

“There’s no need,” Steve said, turning and starting left.  “Just wait until it’s cleared up, and you’re stronger.  I’ll cover you until then.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, low, against his neck.

 

“Don’t apologize,” Steve told him, trying not to snap at him.  It wasn’t Tony’s fault that apologies from him made Steve feel raw, hot, grated against his own guilt painfully.  “It isn’t your fault.”

 

“That much isn’t,” Tony said, then groaned again, trembled.  Steve could feel him biting down on his lip against his neck, tensing his jaw. After a moment, he gave a little breath, sighed.  “Believe me, it’d be nice to be able to call the undersuit, not be naked anymore,” he said, with a little laugh, then groaned.

 

“None of this is your fault,” Steve said firmly, then gave a rueful little laugh.  “But yeah, I bet.  We’ll see if we can’t find you some clothes soon.”

 

“I got you into this,” Tony said, little more than breath, and uneven, as Steve picked up the pace.

 

“I got myself into this,” Steve said. “And besides, weren’t you just telling me that I couldn’t blame myself for what the bad guys get up to?”

 

“You didn’t listen,” Tony said, sounding amused, even as thready as his voice was.

 

“Of course I did, didn’t I just say it back to you?” Steve asked.  He slid to a stop. There were footsteps up ahead; he could hear them.  Around the corner. Tony went still, too, and quiet, resting his head against Steve’s neck and trembling, but not moving or speaking. Steve’s hand came up to rest against the back of his head, almost automatically, as he listened, pressed his back against the wall and eased them both along until he could get a look around the corner.

 

There was a knot of Skull’s thugs toward the end of the hallway.  About five, if his quick visual scan of the corridor was right.  Steve shifted, turning so his side was against the wall and he’d have a better angle, got his shield in his hand, and then measured it for a second, watching. He threw it so it bounced off the wall, then ducked back.

 

He thought he’d be able to take out four of them. Sure enough, as the shield bounced off the wall and came sailing back for him to catch it, the last man skidded around the corner.  Steve brought the shield up into his face, and he went down.  “I told you I could fight like this,” he told Tony, not a little self-satisfied, as he skirted the man’s unconscious body and double-checked down the corridor.

 

“You did,” Tony said with vague amusement, leaning his head against Steve’s neck.  All four of the men were out, accounted for.

 

“Which room was it?” he asked Tony. “Do you know?”

 

“Downloaded security footage and the layout—layout of this place before Extremis went offline,” Tony said, faintly, breath still hitching from pain.

 

“Good,” Steve said, with some satisfaction. “That was good thinking. We can hit their labs next, then.”

 

“For sure,” Tony said.  “There.  That one. Fourth down.”  Steve hurried down the corridor.  The door was heavy, like the others in the facility, industrial, metal. “Better hope those key cards work,” Tony said against Steve’s neck.  Steve nodded, figuring he was right, and reached for Sanderson’s first. To his relief, it did work, and when he scanned it then tried for the handle he saw a light flash green and the door swung open obediently.  “At least I didn’t lock us out,” Tony said, faint but amused.

 

Tony’s armor was inside, and Steve set him down beside it, staying on his feet to keep an eye on the door.  “What kind of shape is it in?” he asked.

 

“Well,” Tony said, shivering a little. Steve put a hand on his shoulder and Tony leaned back against his thigh, letting his head rest heavily against him, and breathed steadily for a moment.  “Not good,” he said.  “Aside from the fact that I can’t really connect to it up here.”  He tapped the side of his head.

 

Steve stroked his hand down over Tony’s hair, along his shoulder and his neck, careful over the cuts that were starting to clot now, before he brought his hand back up and rubbed his thumb along Tony’s forehead. Tony smiled, dreamily, his eyes sliding half-closed, and turned his head further into the touch for a moment. “What do you want to do?” he asked.

 

“Go home, take about five showers, and then have you join me in one,” Tony said, prying his eyes open and grinning up at him. “Failing that—ugh,” he grunted, his face twisting, “failing that, I think I should stay here while you clear the area a bit.”

 

Steve frowned.  “I don’t want to leave you—” he started, but Tony was already shaking his head.

 

“I know,” he said, “I know, but I’m slowing you down, and I don’t want to leave my armor here, but that’ll mean you’ll have to carry it.  It’s too badly damaged for me to use, even if I could right now.”  Steve was still frowning, he knew it, and Tony patted his thigh. “I have this,” he said, lifting the gun. “And everyone here has already seen me naked.”  He winked.

 

Steve scowled.  That wasn’t something to joke about.  But Tony was right, it might be a good idea to clear the place out a bit before he came back and got him.  It wouldn’t be impossible to fight carrying both Tony and his armor, but it wouldn’t be easy, either.  But he didn’t want to leave him, vulnerable, hurt, and still in pain. 

 

Tony’s face softened, grew more serious, as he looked up at him.  “I’ll be all right, Steve,” he said, more quietly, “trust me.”

 

“I do trust you,” Steve said, and gave a brief, rueful laugh, looking down as he brushed his hand back over Tony’s head again. “I’m just worried. This has been . . .” Well, it had been hell.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Tony said.  “Believe me, I want to get out of here in one piece just as badly as you do.  I promise.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said.  “Okay.”  He knelt down, sliding his shield onto his arm, and turned to face Tony, though he was still keeping an eye out for the door.  “You take care, you hear?” he said.

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, tired face creasing with a smile, crookedly, “of course, Cap.”

 

“Make sure you do,” Steve said, then leaned forward and kissed him.  He took care to keep his lips gentle, as gentle as possible, but just feeling the warmth of Tony’s mouth under his, his breath, was dizzying, sent a rush through him, up to his head and swooping through his belly.  Tony’s lips parted, and he made a soft, swallowed sort of noise, and Steve couldn’t help it; he leaned in, his fingers sliding back into Tony’s hair, supporting the side of his head.  Just for a moment.

 

It felt so good to kiss him again. It was hard to believe he’d kissed him just that morning, before they’d gone out on patrol.  When he pulled away, he brought both hands up to cup Tony’s face, his jaw, and leaned in, pressed a kiss to his forehead. He could see Tony swallow, hard, then smile a little, rueful and wobbling, as he blinked, and Steve cupped his hand just under Tony's chin when he pulled back.  Tony’s grin got a little more crooked, and he quirked an eyebrow at Steve.

 

“I meant what I said earlier,” Steve said, and his voice came out husky.  “I love you. Remember that.”

 

“I have a pretty good memory,” Tony said, his smile as soft as his voice.  He hesitated, looked down, then back at him, blue eyes steady and full of feeling. “I love you, too, sunshine.” Only after another moment did he blink, dark eyelashes coming down over his eyes.  “Now get going, already,” he said.  “Lazy ass.”

 

“I’m going, I’m going,” Steve said, smiling, though he still felt a little choked up.  Tony calling him that—sunshine—always made him blush, something in his stomach turn over, just a little, even still.  He reached out, brushed Tony’s cheek with his gloved hand, and got to his feet. He saw Tony shift over to his armor, hand firmly around the gun, and nodded at him, giving him a brief salute at the same time, then turned to go.  He closed the door firmly behind him, then set himself, getting ready, and started to get to work.

 

It was methodical—he’d check a room, deal with whoever was in there, and scan it for whatever he could.  All the while, alarms were blaring, and it seemed like the room they were in wasn’t the only one that had had some trouble with water. Most of the electronics he encountered were sparking or otherwise offline, and the thugs working for Skull seemed panicked, frazzled.  He encountered another group of three about two corridors away that he took out with the shield and then a punch and a kick for good measure, another few in nearby rooms. When he finally found someone in a white lab coat, he knew he was getting closer to his goal of wherever they’d taken his blood.  He grabbed the man and slammed him up against the wall.  “Where’s the serum?” he demanded.  “What did you do with it?”

 

The man fainted.

 

Steve sighed.  He never expected how intimidating people found him, somehow, even after all this time.  He waited a moment, shook the man again, then slapped his cheek lightly.  To his relief, the man began to regain consciousness. His eyes widened as soon as they fell on Steve, and he startled in fear.

 

“Okay,” Steve said.  “Let’s start over.”

 

“You—you’re Captain America,” the man babbled.

 

“Yes,” Steve said.  “You took my blood.  Where. What did you do with it.”

 

“We were just going to analyze it,” the man said, “and try to make a new, better serum—for the good of our glorious lead—”

 

“I got that part,” Steve said, impatiently. It was always the same routine. “Anything else? Anything special this time?”

 

The man hesitated, his eyes sliding away. Steve shook him more violently—that was almost as good as an answer.

 

“What?” he demanded, more loudly.

 

“The Skull wanted to see how it worked on your—your lover,” the man said quickly.  “Compare it to the results we’ve had on our own—volunteers.  It might be able to be used for temporary boosts—”

 

“And that’s it?” Steve asked him. He shook him again. “That’s it?”

 

“We might be able to use it for longer term, even permanent changes, of course,” he said.  “Obviously.”

 

Steve sighed.  “You just wanted it for the serum?” he repeated.

 

“Yes, of course,” the man said, blankly. “It’s hardly exceptional otherwise.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes.  “Right,” he said.  “Show me where you were storing it.”

 

In the end it took a bit more bluster, and he ended up grabbing his shield and raising it before the man gave in, but he showed him the lab, and it was fairly easy to pour the blood down the industrial drains and make sure it was gone.  The man didn’t want to show him everywhere they had stored it, but he wasn’t very good at controlling the direction of his eyes, and before long Steve was fairly certain he’d gotten rid of most of it.  That done, he used his shield to take out the rest of the equipment and storage facilities in the lab, over the man’s protests. Whatever they were doing here, he didn’t want them to be able to continue any part of it.  He pocketed several thumb drives and a hard drive just in case. Even if they did have some kind of virus or threat on them, Tony would be able to get something useful out of them, he was sure, and that might give them some information on whatever the Skull had been planning, or was planning next.  It felt like there was always a next time with him, and Steve figured they might as well prepare when they had the chance.  When the scientist tried to stop him, he knocked him unconscious and left him tied up with some of the medical restraints on a chair.

 

That done, he figured that was about all he needed to do other than clear a path to the exit, and he was getting worried about Tony.  He hadn’t wanted to leave him at all, but this was about as long as he was willing to let it go. He started back the way he’d come. He ran into about five more of Skull’s thugs on the way back, the first two on their own and easy to take out with a throw of the shield around another corner, or the second with a punch and a kick.  The last three were together, and this time they recovered more quickly.  Steve threw the man in front into the man behind him, knocked the other out with the shield on his arm, then took out the others as they struggled up to their feet with a kick.  He hit them again with the shield just to be certain they stayed down.

 

He found Tony still inside the room, but his head was down on his knees, other arm hugging them to him.  When Steve stepped inside the room his head jerked up and he brought up the gun, but his movements were slow and sluggish, and he blinked several times at the sight of him.  He had the gauntlet of the armor beside him, too, as if he’d been tinkering with it at one point.  Steve raised his hands, not sure how aware Tony was.  “Hey,” he said, “it’s me.”

 

“Oh,” Tony said, his voice very scratchy. He started to lower the gun, then his eyes hardened and he brought it back up.  “Steve, get down,” he said, hard and even despite his rough voice, but Steve was already moving, dropping to his stomach and rolling onto his back with his shield in his hand.  He could hear the report of the gun as Tony fired.  “Don’t come any closer,” Tony said.  “Don’t move.  If you do anything, especially to hurt him, I’ll shoot you in the head this time.”

 

Steve could see Sanderson had come up behind him now. His eye was swollen nearly shut, and he had an unpleasant snarl on his face.  He looked like a drowned rat, his hair mussed and, now, bleeding from where Tony had shot him in the arm.  His own gun had just fallen from his hand when Tony had shot him. Steve kicked it away for good measure and saw his face twist even further.  “Oh, come on, Stark,” he sneered.  “Everyone knows you Avengers are too soft to kill.  And you can barely hold the gun up.”

 

“Just try me,” Tony said quietly. His hand wasn’t shaking, either, out of the corner of Steve’s vision; it was perfectly steady.

 

“He doesn’t have to,” Steve said, and came up to his feet, bring the shield up at the same time as his full weight, right into Sanderson’s face.  He’d waited for this. He wasn’t about to lose his chance. They went down hard, but Sanderson was still fighting, going for a knife—he must have gotten a new one, like he’d picked up a new gun.  Steve pinned his arm and hit him, just a solid punch to the face.  It was one of the most satisfying things he’d felt in a long time.

 

He’d thought the man would go down after that, and as much as he wanted to hit him again, he didn’t want to kill him. He pulled back, just a touch—and Sanderson slammed a fist into Steve’s weakened shield arm, then got him in the face with a shoulder as he surged up.  Steve tried to hold onto his arm with the knife, but his hold loosened just enough that Sanderson was able to yank it free. Steve rolled to one side, throwing his elbow into Sanderson’s gut as he did, and he saw him rear back, then the flash of the knife as it came toward his face.

 

There was the echo of another gunshot, and as Steve rolled upward, he felt Sanderson go limp and drop forward.  He met Tony’s eyes.

 

“I had the shot,” Tony said, and now his arm was trembling.  He looked exhausted, like he was about to collapse.  “I told him what would happen if he—if he went for you.”

 

“You sure did,” Steve said.  He rolled Sanderson onto his back and pulled off his glove to take his pulse, but he discovered exactly what he’d expected and what the bullet hole in his forehead spoke to—he was dead.  He started back over to Tony, concerned, and took the gun out of his hand. Tony let him.  He rested his bare hand on Tony’s jaw, against his neck. “Good shot,” he said, and Tony gave a noncommittal noise, pressed his face against his hand, not looking down, keeping eye contact with him.  “Are you all right?”

 

“Fine,” Tony said, breathless and hoarse. He looked like he was just about to faint.  It made sense—the kind of focus he must have needed to take that shot, and in his condition, it must have been incredibly draining.  Steve shifted in, got his hand around the back of Tony’s head, to support him. “Sorry,” Tony said, belatedly.

 

“Sorry?” Steve asked.

 

“Shouldn’t have killed him.  Avengers . . . don’t,” Tony said.  He closed his eyes.  “God.”

 

“I’ve killed a few people in my time,” Steve said, wry, but still serious. “Sometimes you just have to make the call.  Hey.” He pulled Tony forward, into his shoulder.  Tony went without a fight, collapsing limply and heavily into his arms, as if there was no strength in him left at all.  Steve let his hand rest on the back of his neck.  “Let’s get out of here,” he said into his ear.  He could feel the thumping of Tony’s pulse under his fingers.

 

“Mmm,” Tony said.  “Yeah.  Did you get the blood?”

 

“I dealt with it,” Steve said. “Is there only the one lab?”

 

“Only one set up with cold storage and lab facilities,” Tony said.  “Yeah. You’re good.”

 

“Then we’re set,” Steve said.

 

“Bring the armor,” Tony said. “I’m not—not leaving it here.”

 

“I’ll get it,” Steve said.  He surveyed Tony’s body unhappily—the raw, swollen mess of his back, the cuts that were still sluggishly oozing blood in places. “How much blood have you lost?”

 

“Not enough to—be life threatening,” Tony said.

 

“Some of those nicks are pretty deep,” Steve pointed out.

 

“Mmm,” Tony said, again.  “But my internal organs are good.  Scanned—while it was happening.” He looked down. "It . . . helped."

 

Steve couldn’t imagine the kind of focus that might take, but it was good to hear, all the same, and reassuring. Though it felt selfish, to focus on that, his own relief, in the face of Tony’s pain.  But it must have helped. To know that he wasn't being vivisected, the way he must have felt . . . Steve swallowed. “So you’re not in any danger, just in a lot of pain?” he said. That didn’t make him any happier, but he supposed it was better than any alternative result from Tony's wounds.

 

He could see it as Tony smirked a bit. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.” He reached down, touched one of the bloody wounds in his side, where Sanderson had dug the knife in the deepest, and made a face as his fingers came away sticky with blood. “Sorry again, for being dead weight like this,” he murmured.

 

“You’re not,” Steve said, and pressed a kiss against his temple, soft, on impulse.  Tony wasn’t dead anything.  That was the whole point.  “Come on.” He got up and checked over the room, sliding his glove back on as he did.  He found his own wallet and both of their Avengers ID cards, though sadly they didn’t seem to be transmitting.  They’d figure that out later.  He looked over at Tony, arms wrapped around his knees again and head down, and wondered if they’d need money for medical care.  Steve had about a hundred dollars on him—thankfully it was still in his wallet—but that might not be enough.  He went back and went through Sanderson’s pockets.  He felt a twinge of conscience—he’d never felt exactly right about taking money off the dead, and maybe despite everything else, he had a family, or someone else to support—but he had probably gotten it through working for Skull, so from nefarious deeds, and it seemed right to use his money to help Tony. Much to Steve’s relief, he did have a wallet, and it had over six hundred dollars in cash in it. It was a little wet, but it seemed okay. Steve pocketed it, then found a bag in one of the lockers, a carry-all, and started packing the armor away in it, Tony giving him a few low-voiced directions.  He tossed Tony the sweatshirt and pair of sweatpants he found in it. It was better than nothing, but Tony struggled to put either item on, so Steve went back after he finished with the armor and slid the pants up gently over Tony’s battered legs, up over the curves of his rear as he pushed himself up with a pained gasp to let him, then pushed him back down gently and helped his arms into the sleeves of the sweatshirt before he pulled it down over his head. He had his arm around Tony’s waist, was in the middle of getting him up, when Skull’s face flashed onto the com screen in the corner of the room, one that had been dormant before.

 

“Damn, this guy,” Tony said quietly, with a little bit of a laugh, barely audible.

 

Steve couldn’t have agreed more. The Skull just wouldn’t go away. He wouldn’t have said he was resigned to it—he never would be.  But he expected it by now, that was for sure.

 

“As you can see, we have repaired the damage your nancy boy’s little display did to our systems,” the Skull said.

 

“Yeah,” Tony said.  “They seem really repaired.”  The sarcasm in his voice could have been bottled and sold.

 

The Skull’s face darkened, his scowl growing dark, so it was a two-way communication.  Steve had wondered about that.

 

“I imagine his suffering from the serum is even greater now,” the Skull said.  Steve had to admit, Tony did look pale, washed out, dark circles around his eyes. He looked like death, and he just wanted to get him someplace warm, wrap him in blankets so he could rest. “I wonder how much longer he has? I admit, how long he has lasted did surprise me.  While I would deeply enjoy watching the vivisection of his body begin while he breathes his last in agony, I suppose that is not to be.”

 

“Love it,” Tony said.  “Gorgeous image.  Top ten nasty villain threats, I’ll give you that.”

 

“I do wonder at the language you allow your . . . men to use,” the Skull said.  “Your last boy was the same.  Lax, Captain, very lax. I suppose that comes as a natural consequence of your depraved relations.”

 

Steve felt a wave of hot anger go through him, know he must have flushed red with rage.  “You mean Bucky?” he spat at the screen.  “Don’t you dare talk about him that way.”  He knew his fists were clenching, knew this sort of thing was _worse_ than useless with Skull and yet couldn’t help himself.

 

“Oh, Jesus,” Tony muttered under his breath.

 

Steve was starting forward—he wasn’t sure what he planned to do, maybe put his fist through the computer screen, but Tony slid his fingers into the loop of his belt and tugged him back down. Steve was breathless with anger, could barely see straight, but he wasn’t about to shake Tony off in his condition.

 

“Was he not, then?” the Skull asked, and feigned surprise.

 

“Oh, shut up,” Tony said.  “Please.  This routine is so old it could be the next fossil fuel.  Steve and Bucky, blah blah blah.  You know Steve better than that, can you cut to the chase?”

 

“But he does outrage so well,” the Skull said. “You must love him, Captain,” he said, in the next moment, voice dripping with disdain.  “I cannot imagine putting up with him and his mouth for any other reason.  Perhaps he is particularly good in bed.  I admit, it is disappointing to find your tastes so . . . base.”  His voice and face oozed disgust.

 

Tony winked at him.  “Yeah, well, I think Steve likes my mouth,” he said, and Steve felt himself flush for a different reason.  In front of the Red Skull, of all people.  He blew out his breath, getting a hold on himself, then bent down and kissed the top of Tony’s head, a purposefully gentle, loving gesture, using it to conceal his working his arm more firmly around Tony’s waist, getting a good grip on him.

 

“You’re right,” he said.  “I do.  I love him very much.”

 

“I hope you enjoy dying with him,” the Skull said, “since you failed to die with the last boy.  Or maybe this one will also die for you, since he’s already on his way there, and you will survive again, alone.  The curse of the serum working for you, eh, Rogers?”

 

“Get to the point,” Steve grunted, using that surge of anger to spur him on into movement as he shouldered the pack and slid his arm under Tony’s legs to lift him in the same moment.  He rolled him into his arms, got his feet under him, and stood, moving toward the door, making certain that Tony was supported against his shoulder so that he’d have movement in his shield arm.  Tony cooperated again, curling his arms weakly around his neck and hanging on as best he could.  Steve kicked the door open and started out into the corridor.

 

There was another screen down the hall, already showing the Skull’s face.  “Yeah,” Tony whispered in his ear.  “Every screen in the place is on, playing his ugly mug.  You want left, hon.  Garage.”

 

Steve wondered if Extremis was regaining some function, for Tony to be able to tell that, but he wasn’t about to ask Tony that where Skull might hear them.  He just nodded and started for their left.

 

“It’s too late!” the Skull shouted at them. “Whatever you do. I have already activated the self-destruct sequence of this facility!”

 

“He’s not kidding,” Tony muttered. “Shit.  I just tracked it down.  Move, Steve.”

 

Skull started laughing.  Of course, Steve thought distractedly, breaking into a run. Typical.  He was worried about how much running might aggravate the pain Tony was in, and he did grunt, give a soft noise of pain, and press closer against Steve, but there was nothing else for it if Skull was telling the truth. Steve sprinted, as fast as he could while carrying over two hundred pounds of muscular, athletic, six-foot something man and about a hundred pounds of armor on his back.

 

It was still damn fast.

 

Skull was still yelling about . . . something or other. Steve had stopped listening. He bashed his shield into the screen as they passed it.

 

It was satisfying, at least, and it would hopefully prevent Skull from watching them.  Tony gasped out directions into his ear, and it wasn’t long before they were in front of the garage.  The keycards didn’t work on that door, so Steve had to set Tony down as he pried them open with his hands, first denting them in with a punch so he could get a handhold. It hurt, but there wasn’t much time. Tony slid down to the floor and rested his forehead on his knees.  Steve was sweating and huffing by the time he got them open, but there was a space big enough for him to carry Tony through sideways, and that was all he cared about.  He picked him up, noticing how his head lolled back this time before he managed to roll inward, rest his face on Steve’s shoulder.  He was fading. They needed to get out of there.

 

There was a motorcycle in the garage. Steve started for it, set Tony down on top of it.  “I can . . .” Tony said, raising his head.  His face was white, his lips bloodless.  He was close to passing out again; Steve could see it in him.

 

“I know how to hotwire a bike, Tony,” he said, and took the ignition cover off.  He went for the red and green wires and twisted them together, then slid onto the bike behind Tony and kicked it on.  Sure enough, it roared to life.  He pulled Tony more firmly back against him, breathed a sigh of relief that the external garage doors were stuck open and sparking, and gunned the engine.  “See?” he shouted in Tony’s ear, and saw him grin, though a little bit disjointedly.

 

The road was a dirt track, but he could see a highway distance down the hill.  It looked like they were leaving a concrete facility of some sort, like a warehouse, in a complex set a ways back from the road.  He could see the shore in the distance, and the air smelled strongly of wind and salt spray and dead leaves.  There was a forest between them and the highway.  Steve just hoped to hell they got to a town before too long.

 

He could hear the building start to go behind them and feel it, too, the heat, the force of it, but it was a different part of the complex.  Tony groaned, slumping forward over the handlebars.

 

They were just bumping onto the asphalt of the highway when most of the facility blew.  Thank God there was no other car on the road.  Steve hunched down over Tony, shielding him from the heat and force of it as best he could as the motorcycle skidded along the road. When Steve had control of it, he looked back, but he couldn’t see anyone coming after them.  He set his jaw and turned back to the road, sliding one arm around Tony and pulling him back up against him.  Tony was mostly unconscious, he could tell, limp and heavy, but he was breathing and his heart was beating evenly, and that was all Steve was going to worry about right now.  He pulled him up, got his hands both solidly back on the handlebars, and drove.

 

\-----

 

It was dark night by the time they got to something that looked like a small seaside town.  Steve pulled over long enough to pull the cowl off and the scale mail over his head, leaving him in just his undersuit, and added the uniform top and cowl to the bag where they were keeping Tony’s armor.  It left him looking a bit underdressed, and the cold wind prickling along his skin, but he didn’t want to demand an audience as Captain America, not just yet.  They weren’t sure if Skull would have agents in the town, and the last thing he wanted was another fight. His uniform pants and boots might stand out a bit, but he was hoping they’d mostly be overlooked without the more recognizable top half.

 

Tony seemed to rouse as they came to a stop, at the idling of the engine.  He lifted his head from its slump, made a brief questioning sound, then mumbled, “What issit?” He was trembling visibly, and Steve was worried about his condition, had been for a while. He pulled his glove off again and raised his hand to tuck his fingers under Tony’s chin, against his pulse. His head rocked back against Steve’s shoulder, loose on his neck.  His skin was so, so pale, obvious even in the darkness of the night, and felt chilled against Steve’s fingers, cold and clammy, moist with sweat. His lips looked pale, too.

 

“I want to take you to the hospital,” he said, feeling the chill of worry settling into his own gut, trickling down his spine.

 

At that, Tony’s eyes sharpened, and his hand fastened around Steve’s wrist where it had been lying against Steve’s arm around his waist.  “No,” he said, very clearly. “You can’t.”

 

“Tony,” Steve said, brushing his fingers along his jaw, his cheek.  “You’re probably in shock. You lost a lot of blood, and I know you must feel awful—they can help.”

 

“I’ve obviously been tortured,” Tony said, closing his eyes, and blowing out his breath.  His voice was faint, sounded exhausted.  “They’re going to call the police.  The police are going to be full of questions, especially about the facility that just exploded outside of town.  Especially once they realize we’re Avengers.  Skull might have agents in the town.  It’ll be . . . a big mess.”  His face twisted. “And then there’s Extremis. That alone—I can’t let you take me to a hospital, Steve.”

 

“You need _help_ ,” Steve said, worry and frustration making his tone sharp. “Help I can’t give you.”

 

“Extremis will take care of it,” Tony said, faintly. “I just need a . . . few days. A while.  To recover.”

 

“It’ll be easier for the team to find us in a hospital,” Steve pointed out.

 

“Them and everyone else in a fifty mile radius,” Tony said wryly.  “Go to a hotel. Test ‘em a little.” He smiled faintly. “They should be able to find us there. If they can’t, they need the practice.”

 

“They are a new team,” Steve pointed out.

 

“All the more reason to give them practice,” Tony said. He leaned his head against Steve’s shoulder, his neck, and blew his breath out.  Steve stroked automatically through his hair, sinking his hand into the dark curls, by this point both clinging and stiff with sweat, and thought about it. Tony wasn’t wrong. Everything he’d pointed out was true. And with Extremis Tony would be determined against it.  Was it even worth the argument with him, at that point?  He was exhausted, he’d been tortured and sexually assaulted—he was right, Extremis had saved him from stopping his heart; it could save him from this. His life wasn’t in any danger, not really.  Steve knew some field medicine.

 

He just wanted to get him off the road and resting. That would do the most good for him. Steve hoped.  “You might be right,” he said, with a bit of a laugh. “Besides, Logan can track anything.” He turned his head, pressed a kiss into Tony’s hair.  “Okay.”

 

“Okay?” Tony said, breathed out slowly.

 

“Yeah, okay,” Steve said.  He firmed up his arm around Tony’s waist. “Not much longer,” he said. “Promise.”

 

“Okay,” Tony breathed, and seemed to relax against his neck, his body heavy and, Steve thought, somehow trusting. He had to be cold, in just the sweatpants and sweatshirt, Steve thought, and after how cold he must have been earlier, and scooted in a bit more behind him, pulling him even closer. He maneuvered the bike back to the road and started off again.

 

As it turned out, they didn’t have to go into town to find a hotel.  There was one, with a large sign, outside of town, close to the water, or at least Steve could see it beyond the building, a dark mass of slow movement, and hear it more clearly than that.  The lighted sign proclaimed the place the Ocean View Cabins.  Steve made a quick decision and turned into the driveway.  Tony shifted, his eyes fluttering open, and started to sit up, but Steve pulled him back down against him.  “Thinking we’ll stay here,” he said.

 

“Looks good,” Tony said faintly.

 

“I’ll get us a room,” Steve said. “Stay here with the bike?”

 

“Sure,” Tony said with a slight, crooked smile, visible in the lights from the office.  There was an overhang, where Steve parked the bike, allowing it to idle. Tony put his feet down against the asphalt and braced his arms on the handlebars.  Steve pulled the backpack off his shoulders and set it against Tony’s leg, leaning in and kissing the top of his head again, ruffling his hair gently, before he pocketed the money and headed in toward the office.

 

The older woman at the desk met him at the door. “Is everything all right, son?” she asked.  “With your friend?”

 

Steve had a moment of disorientation and blinked. “He’s, ah, not feeling too well,” he said.  Oh, hell, what would work as a story? He just needed to get them a room without her calling 911.  Or the police. Something that would explain Tony’s obvious illness, his paleness.  His mind flashed back to Peter swearing he’d never eat at Sizzler’s again, a week ago. “He had some, uh, some food poisoning earlier tonight, made him dizzy and he fell, facedown in the parking lot, just like that.  I just want to get him a chance to rest, sleep it off, you know?”

 

“Does he need a doctor?” she asked. She was an older, gray-haired woman, in overalls, who reminded Steve of his idea of someone’s grandmother on a farm somewhere.

 

“We already went to a clinic,” Steve said. “He should be fine, we just need someplace to sleep.”  He tried his best smile, hoping that sounded convincing.  He . . . wasn’t very good at lying.

 

But the woman seemed to buy it. “Of course,” she said. “I’m sure.  Let me get you fixed up.”  Over the course of paying for the room, Steve attempted small talk and learned that her name was Mrs. Jasper, she’d run the hotel for twenty years, and planned to pass it onto her grandson, who did the maintenance work for it at the moment.

 

Steve had noticed that he tended to have that effect on older women—they got talkative.  Luckily she didn’t seem to notice that he didn’t share much about himself in response.  But he was willing enough to listen, and she gave him good directions to the cabin, and the store in town when he asked, figuring he would need to pick up some supplies. She didn’t even seem that startled when he paid in cash.

 

He was glad the place had cabins, he thought, going back, with the key this time, to where Tony waited on the bike. They would have a little more privacy, be more secluded—if anyone came looking for them, like whoever was left of the Skull’s men, fewer civilians would have to get involved, which would make it easier to mount a defense.

 

Tony looked up at him as he approached the bike and Steve smiled back at him, reassuringly, he hoped, holding up the keys. Tony gave a little smile and sigh of relief as Steve picked up the bag and slung it back over his shoulders. “Saw you talking in there,” Tony said, hoarse and soft, but still smiling.  “You charmer.”

 

“Just being friendly,” Steve said.

 

“That’s what they all say,” Tony told him. Steve shook his head at him, sliding back onto the bike behind him and kicking it into gear.

 

“Whatever charm I have, I save it for you,” he said into Tony’s ear, and kissed him on the cheek.

 

“You’re not afraid she’ll see us being . . . friendly?” Tony asked, leaning back against his shoulder as he drove.

 

“Don’t care,” Steve said.  “It’s a free country.”

 

“You are a charmer,” Tony sighed, and Steve laughed.

 

“You’re biased,” he said.

 

“Yes,” Tony allowed.  The scent of the forest and the sea was very strong around them now.  “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

 

Steve kissed the back of his head again, then killed the engine in front of cabin number 21.  It was a bit isolated, with a good view of the ocean that would be nicer in daytime, of course, but his eyes could still pick up a bit of it now, with the serum.  He swung off the bike and reached back for Tony, but he scowled at him, pushing his hands away to wobble up on his own.  He managed it, though he practically fell into Steve’s arms once he was standing.  Steve slid his arm around his waist again and held him against his chest as he shifted them over far enough for him to unlock the door and push it open.  Tony rested against his shoulder with his eyes closed, breathing quietly, as if the exhaustion was just too much to keep his eyes open.  He was still shivering a little.  Steve wanted to rub his back and shoulders, try to warm him, but he was afraid to rub the raw skin the sweatshirt was obscuring.

 

The air smelled pleasant enough inside the cabin, though a little stuffy, musty like any cabin at the seaside when left for a while, but not too badly so.  It mostly smelled clean, which Steve took as a good sign.  He winced as Tony stumbled over the rough ground in his bare feet, but he’d gotten the message all right; he didn’t want to be carried right now. And it wasn’t too far. Even with the slow shuffle that was the best that Tony could do at that moment, they managed to get him up and into the cabin without taking too much time.  Steve breathed a sigh of relief, though it was more superstitious than anything, he supposed, when they were both standing inside, and he flicked the light on and closed the door behind him.  He locked it.

 

The cabin was pleasant inside, all blue and white chintz like Delft china, and old, medium-colored paneled wood. There was a bathroom immediately off the entryway, and it opened up farther on.  It looked like there were two bedrooms, and a small kitchenette with a refrigerator and a stove, which Steve had been very happy to hear Mrs. Jasper say was included with the rooms.  There was a woodstove, too.  It was cold inside, though.  He helped Tony over to the couch, which was oriented to face the windows toward the ocean and helped him sink down, leaning his shoulder against the pillows, then went to find the thermostat.  He turned it up and immediately heard the radiator clank to life, then opened the cupboards to find a wealth of blankets.  He grabbed one of the blue fuzzy ones and brought it back to drape around Tony’s shoulders. Tony sighed, pressing his face, eyes still closed, into the sofa cushion, and brought his bare feet up onto the couch so that the blanket covered them.  He was definitely still shivering.  Steve tucked the ends of the blanket under his feet and knelt beside the couch, sliding the bag off, too, and setting it down beside him.

 

“I’m going to go back out,” he said, laying a hand gently on Tony’s hip.  “Okay, Tony? Get us some more supplies. Fix you up.  Get some food.  There’s a store just in town.  I’ll be right back.”

 

Tony nodded slowly.  “All right,” he said.  “I . . . I won’t go anywhere.”  His words were slow and tired, slurring together with his exhaustion, but there was still some humor in them.

 

“Good,” Steve said, smiling, though still worriedly. “You sit tight.” He got up, went over to the kitchen, and opened the cupboards, got out a glass and filled it, then went back to Tony.  “Drink some,” he said, “before I go.”  He held it to his lips. Tony’s eyes opened to tired slits, and then he simply nodded and closed them again.  Steve tipped the glass against his lips and Tony drank. He managed about half of it before he shook his head and sank into the side of the couch again. “All right,” Steve said, and set it down on the low table in front of them.  “I’m putting it here on the table,” he said.  “I’ll be right back.”

 

“I’ll keep the lights on,” Tony said, and yawned. Steve smiled at him, again, suddenly feeling affection, fondness, and love almost painfully welling up inside him, twisting in his chest, in his throat.

 

“You do that,” he said, and leaned up, put one hand on the back of Tony’s neck again and kissed his forehead, patting him lightly before he pulled away.  He saw Tony smile faintly.

 

He poured himself a big glass of water and drank it, draining it all in about five seconds and gasping when it was done, the water had felt so good on his dry throat.  He hadn’t been thinking about it, but he must have really been thirsty. He poured himself a little more, drank that, too, then used the toilet and washed his hands.  That was a relief in itself—he hadn’t had a chance since that morning, before the mission, and somehow the familiarity of washing his hands in a bathroom was reassuring.  Looking into the mirror, though, was almost disorienting.  He looked pale, too, when he looked at himself, his eyes startling in his washed-out face, pale enough and wan, stricken enough that for a moment it was like looking at a shadow of his younger self, before the serum, the way his eyes were standing out like that made his face look thin. He blinked, rubbed a hand across his face, back into his hair, and the illusion was gone.  “Well,” he told himself, “you still screw up sometimes, mister.” The serum hadn't changed that. And he hadn’t fixed this one yet.

 

He went back, got the gun he’d given Tony before and roused Tony enough to be sure he had it in his hand, with the safety on, and knew it, then looked for the cabin’s first aid kit.  To his relief, they had one—he hadn’t wanted to ask and make it too obvious that he hadn’t quite told the truth about what was wrong with Tony. Band-aids, a little gauze and a few compress dressings, medical tape, packets of ibuprofen and aspirin, aloe, alcohol wipes, tweezers, an oral thermometer, antibiotic ointment, medical scissors, an instant cold pack, it wasn’t bad, but he definitely needed more supplies to bolster it.  He set it out on the table in the middle of the room, then double-checked to make sure the money and the key were both in his own pockets and left the cabin, locking it behind him again.

 

He was relieved to see the bike still had enough gas, when he checked.  He threw his leg over it and started off again toward the town.  He didn’t like leaving Tony alone.  But he was safe, he told himself.  He was safe. No one would have followed them there of all places—he’d been keeping an eye out, and if he really thought anyone was following him he’d never have risked endangering Mrs. Jasper and her grandson, or the rest of her family or employees.  And even if something did happen, unlikely as that was, Tony was armed; he hadn’t simply left him defenseless.

 

It didn’t really help.  Steve just didn’t want to leave him.  He felt like he’d had to tear himself away, like some part of him just wanted to hold onto Tony and never let go, was still there holding onto him in the slowly warming cabin.  He’d clung to him so hard, in his mind, in there, it was as if they’d gotten tangled up together.  Now it was hard to leave him even for a moment.  He felt cold in a way he hadn’t earlier, when Tony had been lying against his chest, and found himself shivering, a few hard shudders, in the chill air over his shoulders and arms, even though the serum should have kept him from feeling cold.

 

The town was, well, it was what Steve figured people called a quaint seaside town when they went there for a holiday. There was a boardwalk and places that sold saltwater taffy during the day, and four separate places that did fried fish.  It looked kind of like it didn’t want to have changed since Steve’s day, and so had decided to pretend it hadn’t. Steve thought it was, well, kind of cute, though he’d have been able to appreciate it more if his thoughts hadn’t been back with Tony, on him, how he was doing, how long he’d been gone, what it would be best to get for him.  The town was apparently called Ocean View.  Well, fair enough.  The town was on a gentle hill, with a view down to the beach and the ocean—he could see the waves and the darkness of the sea stretching out behind them even in the dark. Steve felt a sudden moment of wistfulness that he hadn’t come here with Tony of their own accord, for a few days away from it all, at the beach.  Steve had never had a chance to go to the seaside much—he’d sure as hell never done it before the serum; Coney Island was the closest he’d come, and since the ice when would he have found the time?  But they never had the time for that kind of thing.  They hadn’t been together that long, after all, and Steve realized now that for all his fanciful wishes to spend more time with Tony, he’d never pictured taking a break together before, not like that.  He’d never even thought about it.  He had an image of him and Tony on the beach, getting sweets together on the boardwalk, goofing off.

 

Maybe someday.  But the realistic part of Steve knew how unlikely that was to happen, and he almost couldn’t believe his own imaginings.  It didn’t feel like something that could really happen.

 

It seemed like an incongruous place for the Skull to have a facility of any kind, but Steve knew this was exactly the sort of small town he liked to try to get control over.  He’d seen him do it before—part of his playbook.  A favorite technique of AIM’s, too.  Steve would ask SHIELD to look into it.  As difficult as Steve’s relationship with Maria Hill had been so far, it wasn’t a job for the Avengers.

 

He knew he probably looked suspicious at best in just his undershirt, but he didn’t see any way around it. He parked in one of the back spaces at the Walgreens by the gas station on the other side of town. Hopefully people wouldn’t pay that much attention.

 

He figured the medical supplies he needed were most important, so he went to get those first.  More gauze pads and medical tape, butterfly bandages and adhesive strips, a syringe and saline solution to irrigate the wounds, antiseptic wipes to wipe them down, several large tubes of Neosporin, a bigger bottle of aspirin and one of ibuprofen because he wasn’t sure which Tony preferred to take, a heating pad and a load of heating and cooling packs. He threw in toothpaste and toothbrushes, and a razor, in case Tony was feeling up to shaving in the morning, and wanted to.  That done he looked through their clothing selections.  There was a sweatshirt that was soft enough on the inside for him to buy it for Tony, as well as several soft long-sleeved shirts he bought him, and he added a pair of lounge pants, socks, boxers and briefs both, so that Tony could choose his preference, and a pair of shoes, cheap but serviceable, then picked out some clothes for himself as well and added in a light jacket he could wear on the way back.  He was relieved it didn’t cut into the money too much—he’d still have plenty left over to buy food for them both.  He didn’t know how long they were going to be there, but he’d like to get something warm in Tony’s belly sometime tonight, at least.  He bought another carry-all to put it all in, and a small bottle of detergent, hoping the hotel would have a washer and a dryer he could use for the clothes.

 

“Restocking the first aid kit?” the cashier asked him.

 

“Um, you bet,” Steve said, relieved at the excuse. When that was all squared away, he slid into the jacket, then walked across the street to the grocery store, which seemed improbably glitzy and was blessedly still open.  He guessed this place must get a lot of tourists with some money who expected their tofu and truffle oil even while they were on vacation. Or whatever rich people ate. Tony never ate that way, at least, so Steve had no real idea.  He would notice the quality of the food, though, or at least, Steve knew he did normally, so he was glad the place was nice.  He got a can of chicken noodle soup, then extra chicken broth, a chicken thigh, onions, celery, and fresh ginger, olive oil, rosemary, chives, parsley, and lemon juice to spruce it up a bit, and honey, thinking of Tony’s raw throat. He added a package of chocolate pudding, and then whole milk, cream, some sugar, two expensive bars of bittersweet 70% dark chocolate, and vanilla extract, thinking he would make Tony some hot chocolate and, well, spoil him a little.  That was about the extent of Steve’s cooking ability, so he added some eggs, bacon, and a cold sandwich from the deli for himself.  He was starving—he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and just being in the supermarket was making his stomach growl.  He let himself eat a few of the free samples they had out and only then realized how lightheaded he’d been.  He’d gone longer without food in the past, of course, but—it was never exactly a lot of fun. As an impulse, he added in a few bananas, just in case Tony wanted a little more to eat.  He’d noticed the cabin had a coffee maker, so he got a bag of expensive dark roast, too—Tony would miss it if he didn’t get it, that was for sure.

 

He was relieved when everything went without incident and he was back on his bike and driving out of town.  He hadn’t necessarily expected anything to happen, but considering the circumstances it would have been stupid to not be on his guard. He kept an eye out for anyone tailing him, still, but it would have been easy to spot them on the deserted road, and there was no one.

 

\-----

 

He was anxious to get back to Tony, but he stopped at the front desk anyway, to ask if there was a washer and a dryer. Much to his relief, Mrs. Jasper directed him to one in the office.  At her questioning look, Steve scrambled to come up with an excuse. “Our clothes are a little dirty, after everything,” he said finally.  “Tony—” it was a common name, wasn’t it?  Just that couldn’t attract suspicion “—was throwing up, and . . .”

 

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “I know how I feel when I’ve been sick, your old clothes are the last things you want to see.” Steve nodded and smiled, and crossed the room to start the wash.  He could feel her eyes on him as he loaded the washing machine, though, cutting off the tags as he did.  “You seem close to your friend,” she said, finally, and Steve wondered if that should be a warning sign. Was she going to take issue with their relationship, as Tony had suggested she might?

 

“Yeah,” he said, after a moment of thinking how to respond.  “He’s one of my best friends.  I’ve known him for almost ten years.”  Or maybe a little bit more than that.  God, it hadn’t felt that long.

 

“You seem very devoted,” she said. “Are you sure you’re not more than that?”

 

Steve poured in the detergent and closed the top of the washer, took a breath.  He might as well, he thought.  He wasn’t ashamed of it.  They had nothing to hide. “You’re right,” he said. “He is my friend, but Tony is also my partner.  My boyfriend,” he added, to make it clearer, though describing Tony like that still sounded strange to him.

 

He was still half-surprised when she grinned and gave a bit of a laugh.  “I knew it,” she said. “The way you were holding him. It was very sweet. Oh, you must be so worried about him.”

 

Steve swallowed, suddenly feeling very aware of that worry, almost raw with it.  “I am,” he said.  “He’ll be all right, but—” he wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.  But it didn’t feel like it right now?  But he was still worried?  But thinking about what had been done to Tony still made his stomach hurt? Obviously he couldn’t say that.

 

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said.  “You get back to him.  I’ll finish this laundry for you and bring it to your cabin when it’s done.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Steve said. “Really, I can do it.”

 

“No, no, I won’t hear of it,” she said. “It isn’t much trouble at all. You go back to your man; I’m sure he’ll feel better with you there.  Go on, now.”

 

Steve gave in.  He just wanted to get back to Tony, and the thought of it was hard to resist. “Thank you, Mrs. Jasper,” he said, putting all the sincerity and gratitude he could into it. “Really.  I truly appreciate it.”

 

He thought she flushed a little, but she just waved him on.  “You go on,” she said.

 

“Thank you,” Steve said again, and picked up his bags, going back to the bike.  It was a relief to get off it at the cabin, hopefully for the last time that night, and he hurried to unlock the door and step inside, feeling that anxiety crawling in his belly again, not founded on anything except everything else that had already happened to them that day and the thought of Tony lying there on the couch, alone, asleep, and vulnerable, and the dark windows on the ocean. He closed the door behind him and knocked on the wall, aware that Tony had the gun, called out, “It’s me, Tony,” and only then turned the corner into the main room of the cabin.

 

There was no answer, and when Steve set the food on the counter and the other bag on the floor and rounded the corner of the couch, he saw why.  Tony was fast asleep, eyes closed and head pillowed on the back of the couch, mouth slightly open, curled up the way Steve had left him, his hand still resting cupped over the gun. Steve knew the fear that went through him at the sight of it was stupid—Tony was just sleeping, it was obvious—but he still had to reach out and feel for the pulse in his neck, run his hand back over Tony’s forehead and hair, before the tight clenching feeling in his gut would subside.  Tony’s pulse was even and steady, his skin a little warmer now.  It was pleasantly warm in the cabin, too; the heat had picked up, so that was good.  Still not warm enough for Steve’s taste after everything they’d been through, but definitely warmer. He breathed out a sigh of relief and leaned forward just enough to tilt their foreheads together, curling his fingers around the back of Tony’s neck, into his hair, as he caught his breath, just concentrating on the warmth of him, the feeling of his heart beating against his hand.  It was a moment more before he could bear to pull away.

 

He didn’t want to wake Tony right away, but he had gone long enough without medical care.  He took the gun himself first, setting it on the table behind them, and then tried to be as gentle as he could about waking him, rubbing his fingers against the back of his neck and whispering his name in his ear.  He knew better than to try and get started without waking him up first.

 

Tony’s eyes fluttered open slowly, gradually, and he seemed only half aware.  “S-Steve?” he stuttered out, and the tension in his voice, the uncertainty, made Steve’s stomach clench.

 

“Yeah,” he said, still holding the back of Tony’s neck. “It’s me.”

 

Tony blinked, still slowly, but Steve thought there was a little more awareness in his eyes.  His mouth quirked into the littlest bit of a smile.  “Oh,” he said.  “Hi. Good trip?”  His voice was very scratchy and very slurred, and when Steve pulled the front of the sweatshirt he was wearing down, away from his neck, he could see how badly bruised and swollen it was.

 

“I got most of what I think we need,” Steve said, relieved that Tony seemed to be tracking on where he was, what Steve had been doing.  “I just want to get you cleaned up.  You don’t have to do anything, I promise. I’ll do all the work.”

 

“I can . . . help,” Tony slurred, rasping over the words, but lifting his head.

 

“We’ll do it together,” Steve said quickly. A thought struck him, and he laid a hand on the top of Tony’s head, gently, then got up.  “I’m going to start the water running in the shower,” he said.

 

“A shower sounds . . . really good,” Tony said, rough and scratchy, low.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said.  “I bet.  I’ll do that. I’ll be right back.” He got up, took a detour to put the milk, eggs, and meat, and cream in the refrigerator, then went into the bathroom and started the water running.  It heated up slowly, but eventually he got to a temperature he thought was hot enough, and he went back for Tony, who was pushing himself up, struggling up to a sitting position, his face twisted in pain.  He must have stiffened up, Steve thought.  He had to be hurting so badly.  He grabbed the bag of supplies, slung it over his shoulder, then went to his knees beside the couch.  “I can carry you,” he said, and Tony looked like he was about to object. Steve swallowed. “Let me carry you,” he said. “Please.”

 

Tony closed his mouth.  He fell silent, looking at Steve’s face, then he swallowed himself and nodded.  “Okay,” he said, and let Steve slide his arms behind his shoulders, beneath his knees, and lift him as he got to his feet.  He let his head slide forward and rest against Steve’s shoulder and closed his eyes, breathing out.  He was shivering again, Steve noticed.  He walked toward the bathroom as fast as he could while still keeping his stride even.

 

The bathroom was nicely filled with steam when they got there, and Tony sighed, his body relaxing a little in Steve’s arms. He set him down on top of the toilet, the bag beside him, and reached for the hem of the sweatshirt he was wearing. He was careful, knowing that Tony had still been bleeding when he’d put it on him, and sure enough, it stuck and clung, and he had to work it free.  Tony shuddered and sucked in his breath, and he was shaking worse, his head bowed, but he still managed to hold relatively still as Steve carefully unstuck it from each place and pulled it off over his shoulders.  He was still very, very pale, though his skin had less of that gray tinge, and the bruises were showing worse now, purple and swollen. Some of the cuts were swollen, too, hot-looking and inflamed around the edges, and it looked like most had stopped bleeding, though a few were still oozing blood sluggishly. A few were starting to crust over. Steve leaned in and pressed a kiss to the side of Tony’s neck, letting his lips linger, and saw Tony smile as he pulled away and slid his sweatpants down, under the curve of his rear. He had to do the same thing there, especially where the wounds on his thighs had bled and stuck to the cloth, and he winced at how he could practically see the marks of Sanderson’s fingers coming up as bruises against the skin of Tony’s genitals.   He balled up the clothes and tossed them in the corner, then helped Tony up to his feet.  He was wobbly, but with Steve to steady him they got him into the shower without too much trouble.

 

Tony gasped, then groaned as the hot water hit him. Steve tugged off his jacket and then reached in to steady him, making sure he was braced against the wall, though he was leaning on it heavily.  Then it was his turn to sit down on the toilet and tug off his boots and uniform pants. He put both of them outside the bathroom a ways, seeing as how they were leather, with the jacket, then went back into the bathroom, closed the door, and stripped in record time to join Tony in the shower.  He pulled Tony away from the wall as soon as he was standing under the spray himself, tugging him toward him.

 

Tony went willingly, letting Steve tug him in to rest against his chest, his head against his shoulder and neck, bowed and heavy.  Steve made certain Tony was standing under most of the water, then just let him stand there for a moment.  His legs were still unsteady, so he got his arm around his waist, low, and just held him there. Tony was trembling against him, groaned again, very slightly, shaking his head against Steve’s neck. Steve knew the water had to hurt on his raw back, his battered skin, on all his injuries, but it was important, and they both knew that.  He stroked his hand through his hair, slow and gentle, as steady and calming as he knew how to be.  After a moment, Tony shifted his arms slowly, so slowly, to rest his hands loosely on Steve’s hips, and shifted his head enough to leave a slow, soft kiss in the hollow of Steve’s throat, then against his pulse.  His lips were slow, lingering, and sent a tingling rush through Steve that left him almost dizzy.  It wasn’t really desire, just feeling, the way the sensation felt so vivid, so _real_ , after everything, and Steve found himself holding Tony closer, as close as he dared, pressing his face in against the curve of Tony’s neck, against his ear and into his hair.

 

“Get to have you in the shower with me after all,” Tony murmured, lips soft along the curve of Steve’s shoulder and neck.

 

Steve nodded, choking a little as he pressed his face farther into Tony’s hair.  “Yeah,” he managed unsteadily.

 

“Mm,” Tony hummed.  “I wish I could take better advantage of it.  But this is still . . . still nice.”  He sighed, shifted a little closer.  “You’re nice and warm and . . . you make a good pillow, Steve.”

 

“High praise,” Steve murmured. “My chief ambitions have been realized.”

 

Tony chuckled.  “Tony Stark’s personal pillow,” he said.  “I dunno, Steve, I think you might be able to shoot a little higher.”

 

“Nah,” Steve said, and kissed the curve of his ear lightly, forcing himself to stir and reach for the soap.  “This is all I want, right here.”  He ran his hand lightly along the back of Tony’s neck, smoothing gently, making it clear what he was talking about.  Tony gave a soft little chuckle that sounded almost self-conscious and settled his face in against Steve’s neck again.  “This’ll hurt,” Steve warned him.

 

“Yeah,” Tony said.  “I know.  Go for it.” He blew out a shuddering breath against Steve. “I . . . I just want to get clean,” he said.

 

Steve just bet he did.  “Right,” he said grimly, and started to run the soap over Tony’s raw shoulders.   Tony hissed, tensing, his hands clenching into fists against Steve’s hips as the soap began to trail down his back.  Steve kissed his ear again but didn’t stop.  He tried to touch him just with the soap and as gently as he could so as to not make it any worse with heavy hands, just letting the spray wash the soap off him.

 

Luckily there weren’t too many open wounds, though the tails of the whip had drawn blood, but his back looked just awful, red and puffy with bruises coming in beneath and in splotches across it. Steve checked his back over, looking for any grit in the injuries, and gently slid his hand across it in a few spots to be certain anything that might have clung to the swollen skin was washed away.  Tony winced, hissed, but otherwise stayed still, resting his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. Steve cleaned him up down to his waist, as gently as he could, then ran the soap over his rear, letting it drip down his legs before he splashed water over them to rinse it away.

 

“I’m about done with your back,” he told Tony softly, and Tony grunted, a low, heavy noise.  “I know, I know,” Steve said.  “Do you want to sit down while I wash off your front?”

 

Tony nodded heavily and let Steve shift him, help him down until he was sitting on the edge of the tub.  Steve let him sag forward, let his head rest against his chest and stroked his hand through his hair for a moment.  He knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant, and Tony was clearly on the furthest edge of exhaustion already.  Still, he wanted to get this finished before they ran out of hot water, so before long, even though he hated to do it, he tipped Tony’s head back up, shielding his eyes from the spray with his other hand until he was sure he was tracking.  Tony’s eyes looked starry and dazed, and his head tipped back limply on his neck. “You with me?” Steve asked, stroking gently over his cheek with his thumb, beneath the places where it was cut.

 

“Jus’ tired,” Tony said, thick and slurring.

 

“Yeah, I bet,” Steve said.  He put his hand on the back of Tony’s neck again, steadied him as best he could, bracing his arm against one shoulder, then started with the soap on his neck.  He washed the bottom of his face, careful around the cuts, down over his neck, not washing in or over the cuts with the soap, but around them, then setting down the soap and cupping his hands in the water to pour it over his neck, his face, and rinse the soap away, using his body to block most of the spray.  It was a patient, tedious job, but Steve didn’t mind that, just methodically worked his way over Tony’s shoulders, down over his chest to his thighs.  He used the opportunity to get a better look at the injuries, seeing how deep they were as best he could, and Tony was right—none of them were particularly serious, but they looked painful, and having them inflicted while drugged to hell and back like Tony had been must have been terrifying.  Steve figured that the pain alone, the strain of it, was more than half of what had laid Tony out like this.  Tony hissed and winced, swearing under his breath at a few points, but mostly stayed quiet, though he rested his head against Steve’s chest, pressing it in close and closing his eyes.

 

When Steve had finished with that he kissed the top of Tony’s head again, then lifted his arm and started to work his way down it from the fingers, pulling Tony into his side to rest against him as he did. Again, he cleaned around the wounds, helping the spray rinse Tony off as gently as he could.  Tony just leaned into him heavily, eyes still closed. Steve was glad; maybe he could fuzz out a bit, get some rest.  When that was done, he switched positions, pulling Tony close again, and started on the other arm, moving just as slowly and methodically.  He had no idea how long that took, just that when he was done and set the soap down, Tony seemed half asleep again against his chest. He didn’t comment on it, just reached for the shampoo as he shifted Tony so his hair got thoroughly wet, shielding his eyes against his own chest as he did.

 

He knew Tony loved hands in his hair, having it stroked, his head massaged, so he took his time on that, working the shampoo in, working it into a lather.  Tony moaned a little, far back in his throat, as he worked it in, and it was the first time since that morning, Steve thought, that he thought he’d heard a genuine sound of pleasure out of Tony rather than one of distress or pain. It sent a little thrill through him, that he’d actually been the one to put it there, to give him that. He slowed his hands down a little more, massaging with even more gentle firmness, and Tony’s groan was more throaty this time, and one of clear pleasure.  Steve smiled, he knew he was smiling, and lingered over the task, ruffling up Tony’s hair, smoothing it back down, rubbing in firmly over his ears and against the base of his skull, careful to avoid any place that seemed tender, that made Tony flinch even the slightest bit.  He could feel it as Tony’s muscles relaxed even further, as he went limp and even heavier against Steve’s chest, like he was melting.

 

That was perfect.  That was exactly what Steve had wanted to see—the response he was used to, when Tony was very, very tired, or played out, and felt good, and safe with him, and Steve ran his hand through his hair and pulled him close and started to stroke it. He kept it up for a while longer before he washed the shampoo out of his hair, then reached for the conditioner and massaged it in just as thoroughly.  After a long enough while he rinsed that out, too, then lifted Tony to his feet without preamble and shifted him back under the spray for another rinse off, holding him up as he did until Tony’s tired feet managed to take some of his weight.  He stretched around the edge of the shower and grabbed a towel at the same time he turned the water off and had it wrapped around Tony in the next second.  He laid one down over the edge of the bath and tossed one on the floor, then grabbed one of the smaller ones and draped it over Tony’s head, using it to get up the worst of the drips from his hair.  Steve was glad this place was a beach cabin, because it meant they had provided beach towels, too—and there were quite a few. He managed to get Tony to step out of the bath and sit down on the rim facing into the bathroom this time, shoving the shower curtain out of the way, then quickly gave himself a rubdown with one of the towels, too.

 

When he turned back to Tony he was tiredly and clumsily trying to dry his own hair.  Steve let him for a moment, then finished the job and patted down his calves with the same towel, then gently toweled him dry with the one wrapped around him. “I’m going to fix you up now, okay?” he said, keeping his voice quiet.

 

“Okay,” Tony said dazedly.  “Shoot.  Hit me, big guy.”

 

Steve had to smile just a little, shaking his head with some exasperated fondness as he opened the cabinet and took out the cabin’s first aid kit.  He opened it on the counter just in case, then unzipped the bag and started to open the things he’d need.  Tony watched him blearily, but Steve wasn’t sure how much he was actually tracking on it. It was around then that the knock came at the door, and Mrs. Jasper’s voice calling for him.

 

“I’ll be right back,” Steve said, hurriedly, touching Tony’s face until he got a nod of confirmation.  He made certain to close the door to the bathroom behind him, to hide the first aid kit and Tony’s condition but also to keep the warm air in the bathroom from escaping.  He blushed, opening the door in just a towel, but there wasn’t much else he could do.

 

“I hope you were in that shower with your honey,” Mrs. Jasper said, and he blushed even harder.  “Here are the clothes,” she said, sounding thrilled with the reaction she’d gotten out of him.

 

“You didn’t have to do this,” Steve said. “Thank you so much.”

 

“Oh, it really wasn’t much trouble,” she said. “I have to make the rounds at night anyway.”

 

“Is that safe?” Steve said before he thought. “I mean, it seems awfully deserted in these woods at night, ma’am.”

 

“Oh, sonny, I have a gun,” she said, and laughed. “Though it’s more for wild animals than anything.  Don’t you worry about me.”

 

That was something, Steve thought—if the Skull did come after them, he really doubted they’d expect an old lady with a shotgun. “Just be careful,” he said, all the same.

 

“I always am,” she told him, and really, he didn’t doubt that.

 

When he opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside, now with the clean clothes, Tony shivered a little, but he also raised his head, looking a little bit more aware.  “So,” he drawled.  “Grandma saw you naked.  That’s a story for the grandkids.”

 

“I wasn’t exactly naked,” Steve said, closing the door behind him again.  He was sure he was flushing even darker.

 

“In a towel,” Tony said.  “’S close enough.”

 

“She doesn’t know I’m Captain America,” Steve said, flustered, reaching for the medical supplies again.

 

“Steve,” Tony said, “honey.  That’s really . . . not the most outstanding thing about seeing you naked.”  He yawned, hid it against his shoulder.  “It’s really kind of—kind of alarming to me that you think it is.”

 

“Well,” Steve told him, “you would think that.”

 

“Trust me,” Tony said, sounding heavy and sleepy, but still amused.  “Everyone else thinks that too.”

 

 

“Shh,” Steve told him, but he was laughing a little, despite his red face, just glad that Tony was feeling well enough to tease him over it. It was a joke between them already, Steve’s modesty and Tony teasing him about how attractive people found him. It had started right after they’d gotten together, when Steve had confessed to Tony—well, maybe more confronted him about it—that some of his nicknames made him uncomfortable, praising the looks that weren’t even really his to begin with.  One thing had led to another, and then Tony had made a joke about it, and suddenly Steve had felt much more comfortable with it again. Tony was good at that. Tony always said that Steve’s pretty face would have been the same, even before the serum, but . . . well, it was nice of him to say it. “You’re wasting your energy teasing me?”

 

“What else . . . do I have to waste it on?” Tony asked.

 

“Getting better?” Steve asked dryly. “Oh, wait,” he added, remembering. “I got you some chocolate pudding. I want something in your stomach before I give you painkillers.  Stay right there.”  He hurried into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, opening the pudding and sticking a spoon in it, then brought it back.  He set the glass of water on the counter and handed Tony the pudding. Tony smiled at him.

 

“I used to eat this all the time when I was a kid,” he said. His hands were slow and wavering, but he managed to take the pudding, then take a bite.  He licked the spoon.  “Mmm.”

 

Steve grinned.  It had been a good choice, then.  He’d really liked seeing Tony’s eyes light up a little just then. He busied himself opening packages, keeping an eye on Tony's hands and his face as he ate, because he seemed awfully shaky.  But he finished it all right, and Steve took the empty package and threw it away, washing off the spoon and setting it on the shelf above the sink to get it out of the way.

 

“That was good, Steve,” Tony said, sounding vague and floaty, but very appreciative, maybe a little overly so considering it was just a cup of pudding.  Steve smiled at him and licked his thumb, reached out to rub a little extra away from the corner of his mouth.  Tony leaned forward and sucked his thumb into his mouth, licking it off, and winked at him, even as Steve felt a little jolt of heat—nothing that lasted, with Tony in the condition he was in, but he couldn’t help the initial reaction to the touch of Tony’s mouth, the wicked look he gave him with the wink. He thought he’d probably have to be dead not to respond to Tony like that, at least a little.

 

“Tony,” he said, and he knew the heat and surprise were both in his voice.  Tony just grinned and let his thumb slide out of his mouth.  Steve traced the curve of his bottom lip before he pulled back, then, on impulse, leaned in and kissed him gently.  His lips tasted like chocolate and a bit like soap.

 

“Yes, sir?” Tony asked lazily, looking up at Steve from under his eyelashes.  It was obvious that he was still exhausted, but, of course, Steve had often thought that Tony could flirt even in his sleep, just about.

 

“Flirt,” Steve told him.

 

Tony smiled.  “Guilty,” he said, and Steve smiled back, brought his hand up to brush his knuckles gently against his cheek.

 

“Are you going to let me look after you now?” he asked.

 

“Sure thing,” Tony said.  He didn’t yawn again, but his head was obviously nodding with weariness.

 

“Good,” Steve said, and kissed his forehead, gently, before sitting back.  “Okay,” he said. “Aspirin or ibuprofen? Which do you want?”

 

“Aspirin,” Tony said, as if on autopilot, then blinked. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter, now,” he said.  “But yeah. Aspirin.”

 

“No problem,” Steve said, unscrewing the lid, measuring out the full dose suggested on the package, and then handing him the pills. Tony popped them in his mouth, then Steve handed him the water, pleased when Tony drank it all down. “That’s it,” he said, then took it from him and set it aside, washing his hands carefully in the sink. He gave it a few minutes before he started with the antiseptic wipes, unwrapping the towel from around Tony’s waist and starting with the deepest cuts there.  He let Tony rest his head on his shoulder again as he worked—next came irrigating the deepest ones with the saline, which made Tony flinch and whimper, belly heaving, one of the first full-voiced whimpers he’d heard from him all day, even despite the screaming.  He brushed his lips along his forehead, just above his eyebrow, sorry to be hurting him, even as he knew it was helping.  Honestly, he thought it was exhaustion more than anything—Tony was leaning heavily on him, and knowing how much more he had to do had to be daunting, to feel impossible, just thinking about it. Steve washed him up afterwards with more antiseptic wipes and then did his best to close the wounds up with the butterfly bandages.  Next was Neosporin, then the gauze pads, more gauze, and medical tape. He did the same thing for each gash, no matter how shallow, unless it was shallow enough not to need irrigation or the butterfly bandages to hold it together, the gashes over each hip, over his belly, along his sides.  Then he moved up over his chest, repeating the same process, careful to keep the towel wrapped around him enough that he would stay warm.

 

It did take a long time, with Tony flinching and groaning in his arms over and over at first, before the aspirin must have kicked in and he lay more quietly, though still flinching from time to time, gasping and blowing out his breath.  It felt good to see the wounds on his collar bones and neck finally cleaned up, covered with sterile white gauze and tape, and if it felt good to him, Steve could hardly imagine how good it would have felt to Tony, in comparison. Next he did the same for the wounds on Tony’s face, even more careful as he taped on small strips of gauze to cover them, gently smoothing them down with his thumb.  Tony smiled a little at that, at Steve’s gentleness, he thought, and he couldn’t resist pressing a kiss first at the corner of one of Tony’s eyes, then the other, and making Tony’s smile widen.  They didn’t speak, though, they didn’t really need to—this was just business that needed to be attended to.  Steve unwrapped the towel from around Tony’s left arm and started on the gashes there, some deep enough to still be oozing a little. He could feel that anger flickering in his chest again and took a few deep breaths.

 

He had more important things to focus on right now, like the man right in front of him, and the person who had done this to him was already dead.  He had no illusions that the Skull had met the same fate, but he wasn’t here right now, he wasn’t the important one, and Tony was. 

 

He was even more careful with this, glad the gashes into the underside of Tony’s arm didn’t seem to go too deep into the muscle, though Steve would still have preferred to see them sewn up. He took his time cleaning and irrigating and aligning the butterfly bandages for all the gashes before he pressed two large gauze pads to the area and began to tape them down. He did the same for the gashes down Tony’s forearm—two large gauze pads.  Thankfully they were shallow enough not to call for the adhesive strips. When he finished, he pulled the towel back up over Tony’s shoulder and turned to his other arm. Tony just breathed out slowly, letting his head come to rest on Steve’s other shoulder with a quiet sigh. He was just as methodical on this arm, working his way up until he reached Tony’s hand, then taking it into his and giving it a squeeze.  Tony squeezed back, light and slow, but still a response.  His hand felt damp and heavy, but not as clammy as his skin had felt hours ago, for which Steve was glad.  His skin felt much warmer now.  “Almost done,” he told him.  “How’s the serum treating you?”

 

“All right,” Tony said, slowly, after a moment, his eyes blinking tiredly, dazedly open.  “Think it’s almost done now.  The worst of it feels like it’s over.”

 

“That’s not at all what happened with me, you know,” Steve told him, not quite sure what he was feeling.  “It wasn’t long and drawn out . . . like that.”

 

“I know,” Tony said, still in that quiet, slow sort of way.  He smiled a little, crookedly. “Pretty sure . . . every American knows. It’s because of Extremis. It fought it off like . . . it was a virus, and Extremis was the white blood cells.  So I got sick . . . for a bit.  That’s all.”

 

It made sense.  Steve just still felt miserable thinking about it.  Like he’d made Tony sick, his blood.  The sentimental side of him hated that, too. It didn’t seem right, when their hearts beat together, that his blood should make Tony so ill. But there was nothing he could do about it—it was what it was.  He was just glad Tony seemed to be recovering, to be over the worst of it. He squeezed his hand again, then pulled it away, reached up to wash his hands again, patting them dry on one of the nearby towels and reaching for another packet of antiseptic wipes. “Legs next,” he said. “Then I’ll wipe down your back and you’ll be all done.  You copy?”

 

“Roger that, Rogers,” Tony said, grinning a little, because he was the kind of cut-up who couldn’t resist a joke as lame as that one, even when half out of his mind with exhaustion and pain like he was now.

 

Steve shook his head at him, grinning back, even as he started on the wounds on Tony’s legs.  “Well, not quite done,” he amended.  “Then we’ll get you in some warm clothes, and turn on the wood stove, and make up a bed for you on the couch.  And I’ll make you some food, and then you can just rest.”

 

“Sounds good,” Tony said, roughly. “Sounds . . . really good, Steve.”

 

“Good,” Steve said.  He patted Tony’s hip, where it wasn’t bandaged. “It’ll be just like we stole away to take a night off to ourselves at the seaside,” he said, that wistful ache welling up in him again.  He wanted that, for real.  He really did. Maybe if he asked Tony . . . maybe. They could make this right. Do it right next time.

 

“What about you?” Tony asked.

 

“What?” Steve asked, caught off guard by the question.

 

“What about you?” Tony repeated, prying his eyes open like it took an effort.  “Are you okay? Doing all right? Are—are you going to eat something, too? You—you haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast, God, Steve . . . .”

 

“I’m fine,” Steve said, but Tony didn’t look convinced. “I’ll eat,” he added, taping down another bandage.  The bruises from the belt Sanderson had snapped across Tony’s knees were so swollen, puffy and angry and deep, dark already, almost black.  Steve knew that bastard had had a heavy hand.  “I bought myself some eggs and bacon and a sandwich at the supermarket. I’ll eat once you’re squared away.”

 

“You’d better,” Tony muttered. “God, Steve, you know you—need to eat.”

 

“Yessir,” Steve said, smiling a little at Tony’s grumpy fussing.  “I sure will.” He finished with the last of the bandages, just beneath Tony’s knee, and carefully smoothed it out. “There,” he said. “Now your back.”

 

Tony twisted around obediently and let Steve pull the towel down from around his shoulders, though he shivered a little with it almost immediately.  Steve rubbed his hands gently up and down his sides where he wasn’t so raw, skipping over the wounds, just a bit to warm him, then reached for more antiseptic wipes. He knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant, but he wanted to make sure he was as cleaned up as he could be, so he just started from the top.  Tony let out a hiss, jerked forward, and Steve laid a gentle hand on his chest as he worked his way down his back, pulling him back into it.  He was careful, thorough with this, too, though he hated doing it—it felt like another form of torture, all over again, to even touch that raw skin, swollen and bruised and inflamed as it was.  Tony’s back was going to be agony.  It probably hurt worse, by this point, than all the rest of the other injuries he had.  The gashes wouldn’t be hurting him too much unless he pulled on them, but this, and the bruising all over his body . . . Steve personally had always thought bruising was the worst for pain, until you got to things like burns.  And leather like the type they had used on Tony, those thin, stinging tails, with knots, God, that was _meant_ to hurt.

 

But he was still thorough.  He didn’t want to miss one tiny little cut and let that get infected, even if Tony’s body, and Extremis, could handle it. Tony was trembling visibly again by the time he had worked his way down to his waist, but he didn’t complain. He was bearing all this so well, and Steve couldn’t have respected him more for it.  It took a special kind of courage to grit your teeth and just keep on going like Tony had been doing all night, and Steve knew something about that.  That done, he smoothed Neosporin over the worst of the thin open cuts he could find, and covered them with gauze pads and tape of their own.

 

And finally, finally, he was done. He let out a sigh of relief of his own, one that trembled almost as badly as Tony’s breathing was doing right now, pressed a kiss against the nape of Tony’s neck and let himself lean his forehead there, just for a moment.  “You’re done,” he said, through the thickness in his throat, and gently squeezed Tony’s sides where he was uninjured with his hands, just a bit.

 

“Thanks,” Tony said, unevenly, as Steve pulled away, and Steve just rested a hand on his forehead, sliding his hand back through his hair as he pressed another kiss to the back of his head.

 

“Least I could do,” he said, throat feeling thicker than ever, and breathed out unsteadily.

 

It really had been.  He hadn’t been able to stop it from happening, to protect him. Patching him up really had been the least he could do.  But he would do everything he could, now.  Now that he was free, nothing would stop him from doing everything he could for his guy, whatever Tony would let him do.

 

“It’s not your fault, Steve,” Tony said quietly, lowly, obviously slow and dragging with weariness.

 

Steve didn’t know how to argue with that. He didn’t know if there was a way to. Whosever fault it was, it was still, at least partly, his responsibility.  Tony had been hurt because he was his lover.  His _homosexual_ lover, and that added another nasty little twist in his stomach, an acrid tinge to the taste left over in his mouth.  He’d never wanted Tony to suffer for that, not ever.

 

He’d wanted to leave that kind of attitude behind, in the 40s, where it belonged.  Why had it had to follow him here?  That feeling from his youth, of having to look over his shoulder.  He’d never wanted that back, and he could feel it crawling in him, now, just under his skin, simmering and bubbling anxious in his stomach. He’d shake it off, he knew that. He just . . . he hadn’t wanted it to touch Tony.  Not like that. Tony—he had his own issues with that kind of thing.  He didn’t need the ones Skull seemed bent on dragging up, ghosts of the Nazi past, on top of that.

 

Steve thought about the men he’d seen in the camps, pale shadows of people who had been vibrant and full of life, just because they were like him, because they liked other people of the same sex, or because they liked both.  Like him. He tried very hard not to think about Tony, to picture him as one of them.  He’d been trying very hard not to think about that all night.

 

“I just wish it hadn’t happened like that, is all,” he said, and he could feel how tight with frustration his voice was as he swung himself up from the edge of the bath and picked up the new clothes he’d bought for Tony.  “I know it’s probably a bit much to hope that it would never happen at all, hurting one of us to get to the other—but like that?”  It was sickening. He hated it.  Seeing Tony tortured because of it—

 

Tony, he knew, was probably picturing, hearing, his father.  For that, if for nothing else, Steve wished he’d had a chance to sock Howard Stark one in the jaw. It was different for him. He didn’t see the ghost of a concentration camp.  He saw . . . he saw a generation dying from a disease no one could explain.  He heard his father’s voice condemning him for being a sissy and a mama’s boy and all those nasty names people had for him because of his sexual promiscuity, like his enjoyment of sex had anything to do with his orientation. Steve didn’t understand, not really, he knew that.  Tony didn’t really understand the ghosts in Steve’s head, either.  He knew, of course, he knew what everyone knew, but how could he understand?

 

Steve didn’t want him to, and that was why he hated this.  Hated Skull, for bringing him into this.  For touching Tony with it.

 

“I’m all right, Steve,” Tony said. He looked up at him, eyes tired, bruised and sunken in his face, but steady all the same, still bright. “I really am all right.”

 

“I know,” Steve said, feeling himself deflating, some of the anger, the energy, leaving him and leaving a tired, heavy feeling in its wake.  “I just wish I’d been able to stop it from happening.  It shouldn’t have happened.”

 

“Better us than some other poor couple, right?” Tony said, still very quiet.  “Two . . . two innocent boys from . . . somewhere?  At least I could take it.  I . . . signed up for this.  It—it shouldn’t have happened, no, but . . . that’s why we do what we do, Steve.”

 

Steve thought about Arnie, and Michael. He looked down at his hands, full of the clothes he’d bought for Tony, and sighed.  His hands clenched into fists, but he forced them to relax.

 

Tony was right.  “Yes,” he said.  “It is why we do what we do.”  He couldn’t argue with that.

 

“You don’t have to like it,” Tony said with ragged humor, and Steve smiled a little at that, darkly.

 

“I don’t,” he said.  “But you’re right.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony replied.  “C’mere.”

 

Steve hesitated, but he put the folded clothes down, went down on one knee in front of Tony.  Tony didn’t lift his arms much, but he reached out and settled one hand at Steve’s waist, pulled him close and kissed his cheek, the side of his head. “This is . . . why I asked if you were all right,” he said, his voice a bit muzzy still, but warm, fond.

 

“I’m all right,” Steve said, blowing his breath out. He let Tony’s hand reel him in, pressed his face against the damp skin of his neck, careful of the bandages. “I am.”

 

“Does that actually work to convince people, Rogers?” Tony muttered.  “Really.”

 

Steve gave a short, rueful little laugh. “Not you, I guess,” he said. “I will be all right, how’s that?”

 

“Better,” Tony grunted, and kissed his cheek again. Steve raised one hand, slid it through Tony’s hair, cupped the back of his head and held him close, let his eyes slide closed, just for a moment.

 

And somehow that did make him feel better. He let his breath out, and Tony’s fingers ran gently along his back, not moving much, but still stroking gently. He could feel the tension releasing, flowing out of his body as he knelt there, laying against Tony. Tony was right. He was still here. He was still himself. They were still together. Things might not feel that good right now, but they would be all right.  They would. They were both stronger than Skull, after all.  They always had been.

 

After a moment, he pulled back again, and managed a smile for Tony.  “I was going to ask you,” he said, “what kind of underwear you wanted.  I got boxers and briefs.”

 

Tony looked and him and blinked, then smiled a little. “I get choices, huh?” he said. “Great service around here.” His fingers flexed at Steve’s back, pulling him a little closer, and he pressed a tired kiss into his mouth. “I should leave a big tip,” he breathed against his lips.

 

Steve felt his face heat, almost automatically, and his mouth opened for Tony, he leaned in, a moment before he recovered himself and pulled away.  “Tony,” he said, laughing a little.

 

“Mmm,” Tony said, smiling at him, his eyes so warm. Steve squeezed his hand against the back of his neck.

 

“Choice?” he said.

 

“Boxers, I think,” Tony said quietly, after a moment. Steve nodded and reached back to get them, then helped Tony pull them on, up over his legs, shifting the towel away. Next he did the lounge pants and the long-sleeved shirt, careful pulling it on over the bandages, then the sweatshirt.  Done, he combed his fingers through Tony’s still-wet hair a bit and smiled at him.

 

“All set,” he said, and reached back for his own clothes.

 

“I . . . guess it is a little cold to wander around naked,” Tony said with a sigh, as Steve pulled them on, and Steve looked back at him and smiled at the same time he blushed.

 

“A little,” he said.

 

“Mind if you help me use that while you’re changing?” Tony asked, nodding at the toilet.

 

“Course,” Steve said, and helped Tony up and over to it.  Tony seemed like he had the rest handled, despite his fumbling hands and the way his head and shoulders sagged, exhausted, so Steve turned away and got himself dressed, despite wincing at Tony’s hiss of breath as he urinated—he was sure that hurt a lot, but there wasn’t much he could do there.

 

Tony finished with the toilet just as Steve pulled his own sweatshirt on, and Steve helped him over to wash his hands, checking briefly to make sure Tony hadn’t had any blood in his urine. He helped Tony sit back down on the edge of the bath, then got out the socks and slipped them over Tony’s feet, noticing how bruised his ankles were as he did.  He frowned and reached for the roll of bandage and the gauze pads, wrapping them so at least the bruises would have some cushioning, then pulling the socks up over them.  He patted Tony’s foot when he was done and he sighed, curling his toes slightly. Steve smelled and pressed his lips to his knee, against the soft fabric now covering it, before he straightened up.

 

Steve then went for one of the cold packs in the first aid kit, breaking it so that it activated, then covering it in a towel. “Lean forward,” he said, and Tony obeyed instantly, letting his forehead rest against Steve’s shoulder. Steve held the cold pack to his back, over his kidneys.  He didn’t want to overwhelm his body, but he wanted ice on that, at least, to numb the pain and limit the bruising there as much as he could.  He didn’t intend to leave it on any longer than ten minutes—Tony had gotten cold enough already, and he didn’t want to send his battered body into shock—but he wanted to do what he could to reduce the bruising there at least. He held it there, even though the cold seeped through his hand, making him shiver, stroking Tony’s hair with his other hand, for ten minutes, even though Tony was shivering, too, after a while.

 

By the time he was satisfied, Tony was heavy and limp, as if half asleep, against his shoulder.  He set the ice pack down and rubbed his hand on his own thigh to warm it up, stroking the back of Tony’s neck with his other hand, holding him close since he was shivering.  “Tony,” he said, quietly.  “You with me, buddy? You awake?”

 

Tony made a bleary sound, lifted his head. “Mmm,” he said. “St-Steve?”

 

“That’s it,” Steve said.  “It’s me.”  He rubbed the back of Tony’s neck a little more.  “Sorry about that, I know it was cold.  We’re done for now.”  He pulled back a bit, offering his arms so Tony had plenty of time to object if he’d rather not be carried. He didn’t, though, just let his head rest against Steve’s shoulder again, let him carry him into the living area, his eyes sliding closed.

 

Steve got him set up on the couch, covered in the blanket and propped up with pillows in one corner of it, then kissed his forehead. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

 

“I’ll be right here,” Tony said sleepily, with a bleary smile for him.  Steve nodded and went back to clean up the medical supplies, packing all of it, the trash left over, too, back into the bag, and putting the towels in the laundry basket. That done, he went into the bedroom and got some of the extra sheets, several blankets, and pillows. It was cold in there, he thought, and a bit more damp—he wouldn’t have wanted Tony to sleep in one of the cold beds, but it would be better for him to sleep propped up on the couch anyway, since it wouldn’t be comfortable for him to lie on either his back or his front.

 

He brought the blankets back out and got Tony up just long enough to spread the sheet over the couch and arrange the pillows into a soft heap for Tony to rest in.  Tony sank down into them with a sigh.  “Comfortable enough?” Steve asked, sliding one of the bed pillows just under his head and shaking the blankets out over the couch, tucking them in around Tony, over the one that was already wrapped around him.  He grabbed another and draped it around his shoulders.

 

“For sure,” Tony said, still sounding drowsy. Steve patted his leg and saw him smile in response before he moved on to start with the wood stove. There was wood just inside the entranceway to the cabin, so that was nice—they didn’t need to worry about it being wet or drying it out.  It wasn’t long before he had it going, and a pleasant heat was emanating out for it into the room.

 

Tony sighed again, as if in pleasure, and Steve could see his head sinking heavily into the nest of pillows. That was good. He would just let him rest for a while. It would be good if he could get some more sleep while Steve was cooking.

 

With the wood stove on as well as the heat, Steve was willing to risk opening the window just a crack. The sound of the sea came in, the smell of it, and he took a deep lungful, feeling as if it were clearing out the remnants of the smell of blood and sweat, of concrete and brackish water, the tang of fear and horror that had stayed in his lungs, as well as the residual mustiness of the cabin.  He stayed there for a moment, letting it settle in, some of the tension in his shoulders starting to relax, as if he could finally let go of some of that heightened alertness, let the adrenaline begin to ebb away, then turned back toward the stove to get cooking.

 

Steve was far from an accomplished cook. When he’d lived on his own, both before the serum and after, in this time, he’d experimented a little, but only just a little, and he’d really only had about five dishes in his repertoire, most of them involving eggs or pot roast.  Diners had been his best friends.  But he could handle those few things, and he’d picked up a few tricks from Jarvis, over the years—he’d always liked sitting in the kitchen of the mansion; it was comforting, and Jarvis was so easy to talk to.  For him, at least.  He’d heard other Avengers say the butler seemed unapproachable, but Steve had never found him that way.  Jarvis had been one of his first real friends in his new time, other than Tony. Well, Iron Man, and then Tony. Anyway, he’d learned a few tricks he thought would help spruce up the canned soup a bit.  He could see Tony perking up as he finished cooking it and the smell of the onions and herbs and the chicken broth filled the room, and he was sitting up by the time Steve brought him one of the big mugs in the cupboard filled with it, and a spoon.

 

“That smells really good, Steve,” he said, appreciatively.

 

“There’s more where that came from,” Steve told him, though he doubted Tony would eat more than one mug of it, what with how exhausted he had to be.  Tony never ate that much at the best of times—he preferred to eat smaller things frequently rather than big meals at once, as far as Steve could tell.  He tested the heat of the mug himself and it wasn’t too bad, so he pressed it into Tony’s hands.  “Got it?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, wrapping his fingers around the mug, beneath the handle.  “Got it.” Steve nodded and moved to pull away, and Tony said, “Thank you, Steve,” meeting his eyes evenly. “This is . . . this is really nice.”

 

Steve shrugged a little.  “I thought you could use something to eat,” he said.

 

“Beyond the call,” Tony said, with a little smile, dropping his eyes and his eyelashes now, and sipped gingerly at the soup. “Wow, Steve, this is really good,” he said with some surprise.  “Is this . . . canned?”  He blinked at it.

 

Steve smiled, proud of his efforts, if even Tony wasn’t sure if it had started its existence in a tin.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Jarvis taught me a few tricks for fixing up canned soup.  I think he was worried about me living on my own, to be honest,” he added, with a laugh, thinking back to those conversations.

 

“Well, this is fantastic,” Tony said. “You must have gotten a lot out of those lessons.  I’m impressed.” He chuckled a little and went back for another sip.

 

“I can take direction,” Steve said.

 

Tony muttered, “Yeah, sure,” but Steve decided to ignore it.  Tony was just being smart-alecky, and that was a good sign, a good thing, after the day they’d had, the way Steve saw it.

 

There was plenty left for two more bowls, or mugsful, so Steve poured himself one and sat beside Tony on the couch to eat it. It felt so good to get something substantial in his stomach he could hardly believe it.  He was used to going hungry for a while, with how much food his enhanced metabolism demanded, and it didn’t impact his effectiveness much, but there had been a growling emptiness in his stomach that was starting to approach pain.

 

And the soup wasn’t bad at all. He was pretty proud of how it had turned out, he decided. 

 

He finished before Tony, which wasn’t surprising, since Tony was eating slowly, one sip or spoonful at a time, his arms wobbly, though Steve didn’t think he was in any danger of spilling.  He kissed the top of Tony’s head again and got another smile up at him for it, then went back, washed out the mug, and got out the sandwich. He unwrapped it and started to eat, not bothering to sit back down in case it dripped or left crumbs on the sheet, and eating it over the counter instead.  When he finished that, he was finally feeling a little less hungry. Tony was just about finishing the soup, Steve noticed. 

 

“Want any more?” he asked, going back to collect the mug.

 

“No, thanks,” Tony said.  “That was good.  I’m good.” He sounded exhausted, leaning his head back against the pillows, eyes slipping closed again, as Steve took the mug out of his hands.  Steve reached forward, cupped his cheek gently, trailed his fingers along his jaw, and Tony smiled a little.  “Want some hot chocolate?” he asked.

 

Tony blinked his eyes back open. “Oh,” he said, sounding a bit surprised. “That sounds nice.”

 

Steve had thought that might tempt him. Tony had a weakness for chocolate that he didn’t often let on about, though Steve wasn’t sure why he was so secretive about it, and hot chocolate was one of his favorite forms of it. It was why he’d gotten the fixings for it—something to spoil Tony a little bit, something he knew he liked. Something a little special, maybe, that he could do for him extra.  He smiled, pleased that Tony liked the idea, that it hadn’t been a bust. “Sure thing,” he said. “Coming right up.”

 

He moved to pull away, but Tony’s eyes opened a little more and met his.  “Hey,” he said, “Steve.  C’mere for a second, first.”

 

Surprised, Steve went down to his knees in front of the couch, leaned in.  “What is it?” he asked.

 

Tony lifted his arms, fisted one in the front of Steve’s sweatshirt.  The other landed heavily in his hair, at the back of his head, and he pulled him in a little more. “You know I love you, right?” he said, hoarse and husky, his eyes still fixed on Steve like they were pinning him there. Tony gave a rough little laugh, but didn’t look away.  “Feel like I haven’t said that enough today,” he said, and then his mouth twisted in a crooked smile. “Or ever, really. I know I don’t say it . . . much.”

 

That much was true.  Steve swallowed hard.  He had gotten used to it, really—it wasn’t like he was particularly free with the words himself.  They meant a lot; he didn’t toss them around lightly.  So he understood.  He did, he just—wondered, sometimes, how Tony felt, if he was as serious as Steve was, what this—meant to him, but that wasn’t fair, it was just—

 

“I understand,” he whispered hoarsely, and wished it had sounded more decisive.

 

Tony looked up at him, eyes wide, soft and serious. “I don’t know,” he said. “If you do, I mean.” His fingers stroked through Steve’s hair a little; his hand settled on the back of his neck. He made a frustrated face, and he looked just a bit sad, a bit upset with it, at the same time. “It’s just—it feels so empty, just to say it, you know?  People say it all the time, and—people have said it hundreds of times, to me, and I said it back, and it was.”  He shrugged, just the tiniest bit, more a suggestion of the movement than anything else. “Empty,” he murmured, his own voice hoarse. “But it’s not, with you, and you—you deserve to hear it.  I guess I just hope that you—know that, without me having to say it, that you can—can see it in what I do.  But that’s not fair. You’re not a mind reader.” He smiled a little, still wry. “I just wanted to get that out there,” he added softly.  “I guess.” He looked down. “It probably sounds stupid,” he said. “But it was worth saying. I love you, Steve, sweetheart—I do.”

 

Steve’s throat felt thick, and he thought his eyes might be prickling.  “No,” he said, roughly, “it doesn’t sound stupid.  Thank you—thank you for telling me.”  That had been a long speech, he thought, tired as Tony was, with his bruised, swollen throat.  But it had been important to him, and so he’d said it.  Gratitude twisted up with the tender ache in his chest and he reached out, brushed Tony’s slowly drying hair, really curling now, back from his face, let his hand linger over his temple.  “It’s good to know,” he said.  “I hope you know how much I—” and now it was hard for _him_ to get the words out, stupidly, after all that “—I love you, too. How . . . serious I am.”

 

He knew they’d started this kind of quickly, almost on a whim, of fate, of chance, he didn’t know.  But he was serious about it, all the same. So serious it was almost frightening sometimes.  He’d been wanting this with Tony for most of his adult life, or that was what it felt like. Sometimes he didn’t know what to do with himself now that he had it.  It felt like it couldn’t really possibly be real.

 

Tony’s thumb stroked slowly down the nape of Steve’s neck, making him duck his head and shiver.  Tony gave a rough little laugh. “Serious,” he said. “Damn.  You know, I felt a little stupid, hanging onto it for so long. How I felt about you. Like you would ever look twice at me.”

 

“What?” Steve asked, getting his head up. “Tony—”

 

He gave that little suggestion of a shrug again, smiling wryly and still stroking the back of Steve’s neck with his thumb. “Still almost can’t believe it,” Tony said.

 

“Tony, I—felt the same way about you,” Steve said with a disbelieving little laugh.  “I can’t believe it—that you felt that way, I just—”

 

Tony’s smile softened a little. “We were both stupid, I guess,” he said.

 

Steve smiled back.  “Maybe a little,” he said.  He ran his fingers down the side of Tony’s face, his throat thickening up again. “I’m lucky to have you,” he said.

 

Tony’s face twisted up a little, but it didn’t look like it was in a bad way—like it was with emotion, not distress. His eyes were still warm and soft. “Yeah, well, not everyone would agree with you on that,” he said.  “But I—I’m glad you feel that way.”

 

Steve would never understand it, whatever it was that made Tony say things like that about himself, or feel that way about himself. He was one of the most incredible people Steve had ever met, but he talked as if he thought people barely tolerated him.  Sure, he could be abrasive—he could make Steve madder than he’d thought anyone ever could. But it wouldn’t be like that, he wouldn’t be able to, if Steve didn’t already care about him, care about his opinion—what he thought of him, just what he thought period.  He cared about Tony so much it left him breathless with it when he thought about it, and he was charming, and engaging, and funny, and intelligent, and loyal, and trustworthy and—he had been one of Steve’s best friends before he’d ever admitted to himself that he might feel something other than strict friendship for him, and he still was even now. 

 

Steve raised both his hands to frame them against Tony’s cheeks, against his face.  “I really do,” he said, as sincerely as he could, wishing he could convince Tony of that same thing.  “Anyone who doesn’t is being stupid.”

 

“That’s the end of it, huh?” Tony said, smiling a little.  “They’re being stupid.”

 

“I feel lucky,” Steve said.  He smiled a little back, leaning in, trying to get Tony to believe him.  “That’s what matters.”

 

“Yeah, well, they do say love is blind,” Tony said, but it had the tenor of a joke, and he was smiling, letting his eyes close as he leaned up for a kiss.  Steve let his hands link behind the back of his head, pull him in as their lips met. Tony’s lips were soft and warm against his, his mouth wet and welcoming.  The kiss didn’t have his usual energy, but it was warm and soft and sweetly tender all the same, Tony’s breath heavy and welcome against Steve’s. When he pulled away, Steve smiled and shrugged at him.

 

“Never got that saying,” he said, tracing his finger along Tony’s bottom lip, down the shape of his beard and over his jaw. “If I hadn’t seen you first, how would I have fallen in love with you?”

 

“Hopelessly and from afar, like in a fairy tale?” Tony joked, the skin around his eyes crinkling up with it.

 

“And about as real,” Steve said. “I know your faults, Tony Stark. I’ll take you as you are.”

 

“You didn’t even know who I really was at first, you know,” Tony pointed out.

 

“I didn’t know your real name,” Steve corrected. “I always knew who you really were.” His character, his bravery—who Tony really was, as Iron Man, had always been obvious.  At least to him.  More obvious than it had been as Tony Stark, at first, because as Iron Man, well. As Iron Man he didn’t try to hide it, it seemed to Steve.

 

“Huh,” Tony said, looking down. Steve stroked his hand back through his hair.  It seemed unfair that he could believe in Tony even when Tony couldn’t, but maybe that was just going to be how things were.  Until he convinced Tony otherwise, of course.  He brought his hand down, traced his thumb along his jaw.  “Well,” Tony said.  “That wasn’t really my point, anyway.”  He cleared his throat a little, raised his head and looked back up at Steve. “My point was—even today, I felt lucky. I feel lucky.  To have you here—” he smiled a little “—with me, looking at me like that?  I don’t see how I could possibly feel any luckier.”

 

It was Steve’s turn to look at him doubtfully. Of course, he thought, with some ruefulness.  He should have expected that.  No one turned the tables on him as effectively as Tony did.  “Lucky?” he said, and he tried to keep his bitterness out of his voice, but he didn’t think he quite succeeded.  “After that? You were tortured because of me.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, low and even. “Lucky, sunshine.”

 

Steve’s throat hurt.  He looked down, eyes stinging.  Tony’s strong, callused hand, hard palm and clever fingers, came around and stroked gently along his cheek, thumb along Steve’s cheekbone.

 

“I was tortured because the Red Skull is an asshole who wanted me to be,” Tony continued.  “And because his thug was a sexual sadist with an inferiority complex. They said it was because of you, but it wasn’t.  We both know that, or we should.  I know you want to bear the weight of the world, honey, but this one, it’s not on you.” Steve swallowed. He wasn’t sure what to do with that. It wasn’t that Tony was _wrong_ , but—but.  Steve still felt responsible.  He still _was_ responsible. Tony smiled a little. “Besides, I’m feeling a lot better. I don’t think you’ve ever made such a big fuss over me before.”

 

“Because you don’t let me,” Steve told him, smiling weakly.  “I would more often, if I didn’t think it’d bug you.”

 

“So you’re just preserving my fragile ego?” Tony said, and laughed a little.  “Thanks.”

 

Steve chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, leaned forward and pressed his lips to Tony’s cheek.

 

“Hmm,” Tony said, sliding his hand back into Steve’s hair, twining a few strands of it around his fingers.  He was still moving his arms like they hurt and weighed a hundred pounds each, but the movements weren’t quite as painful and labored as before. “I’m not sure if I buy that, Rogers,” he said, sounding amused.

 

“Well, you should,” Steve said, grinning at him. “I’m terrible at lying, especially to you.  You always see right through me.”

 

“That’s true,” Tony said, smiling a little more.

 

“And he’s modest,” Steve said, teasing. “Really, my prince charming.” He curled his arms around the back of Tony’s head and leaned in to press a kiss to the tip of his nose.

 

“I thought you approved of honesty,” Tony mumbled.

 

It was true, Steve couldn’t deny that. But it was hard not to give into the urge to tease Tony sometimes.  He was such a little shit himself.  “I do,” he said, laughing.  “I do.”

 

Tony slid his fingers down Steve’s neck, gently brushed them over the raw places where they’d stuck him with the needle. He was still a little bloody there, Steve realized, and the marks where the needle had gone in had swollen up. Tony frowned.  “You didn’t patch yourself up,” he said.

 

Steve brought his hand up and felt the spot. Yeah, it was a bit puffy and tender, but it wasn’t much of anything.  “Oh,” he said.  “It’s not bad. It’s not a big deal.”

 

Tony scowled at him.  “You make this huge deal over me and then won’t let me worry about you?” he said.  “Not cool. Get it fixed up, Steve. If you bring me the stuff I’ll do it myself.”

 

“I can do it,” Steve said hurriedly, catching Tony’s hand in his and pulling it back down.  “It just wasn’t on the top of my list.”

 

“Well, get it fixed up,” Tony said. Steve hesitated, not wanting to leave him, and Tony’s lips flattened.  He gave him a stern look.  “Steve,” he said, and then softened abruptly.  “It bugs me, too,” he said.  “You know. Seeing you hurt.” He swallowed. “I wanted to . . . go to you when they did it, but I couldn’t.”  He rubbed his thumb over the swollen marks again.

 

Steve swallowed, thinking about what they’d been doing to Tony in that moment.  He was surprised that Tony had even been tracking on what they’d done with Steve. He’d known he’d seen it, been aware, but he hadn’t realized—

 

Tony was looking at him, his eyes distressed, and the skin around them tight, and Steve couldn’t refuse him. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “Just sit tight.”

 

Tony nodded, looking relieved, and let Steve settle him back against the pillows as he got up and headed back to the bathroom. He swabbed the bloodied spot quickly and then smoothed Neosporin over it, taped it up with gauze and a bandage. While he was at it, he did the other few cuts and scrapes he’d acquired.  The last thing he wanted was for Tony to notice something else later and have them go through this whole thing again.  That finished, he came back and went back to Tony, who immediately sat up enough to raise his arm, sore though it seemed to be, and ran his thumb over the bandage, as if to check it.

 

“That’s better,” he said, and brushed the backs of his fingers against Steve’s jaw, smiling at him.

 

“All set,” Steve said back, with a smile.

 

“Thanks,” Tony said after a moment. “I hated seeing them do that to you.”

 

“I hated seeing them do it to _you_ ,” Steve said, quietly.  What they had done to Tony had been far worse—God, injecting him with it.  It still made his stomach twist, his chest hurt.  Hurting him the way they had—they could have killed him.  They nearly had.

 

Tony sighed and leaned forward, settling in against Steve’s chest again, and Steve looped his arms loosely around him, careful not to press too hard as he pulled him in, just a little, against him. “I knew you were there,” Tony said, after a moment.

 

“I hope it didn’t make it worse,” Steve said against his hair, stroking his hand along his neck again, slowly up through his hair.

 

“No,” Tony said, soft.  “It didn’t.  It helped.”

 

“I’m glad,” Steve said, and pressed his face into Tony’s hair again.  This time it smelled clean, like shampoo and conditioner.  It had turned into a thick, furious tangle of soft curls from the humidity in the salt air and being freshly washed.  “Seeing you like that—” he knew he was starting to tremble, himself, and couldn’t help it.

 

“Shh,” Tony said, “shh.  It’s all right.  I’m all right now.”

 

“They always do that,” Steve said, barely aware of what he was saying, the feelings, the frustrations just spilling out of him, the way they ached and dragged at the inside of his chest. “It’s never me. They tortured Bucky in front of me, too. I’d rather it was me. I can’t stand it.” His voice was muffled by Tony’s hair, and he doubted he could have ever said it otherwise, anyway, ever said it louder. It felt shameful, just to admit it out loud.

 

“That’s why they do it, honeymuffin,” Tony said softly. “It’s the best way to hurt you.”

 

Steve knew it was all after-effects, reaction, that it was over, that everything was all right, and it was just that the shakes were getting him now, but he couldn’t seem to stop trembling. He held Tony just a little bit tighter, as tightly as he dared.  “I thought I might lose you,” he got out.  “And I only just—we only just—”

 

“Shh, sweetheart,” Tony said, his hand shifting a little, sliding further onto the middle of Steve’s back. “Shh, I’m right here.”

 

“But you would have died,” Steve said, God, what was wrong with him, but he couldn’t help it, he could feel his breath coming more and more harshly in his lungs, scraping in his throat, “and my—my blood would have killed you.  How could I—how could I tell the others that you were _dead_ , because of me, I—”

 

“You don’t know that,” Tony told him. “We don’t know what would have happened.” He brushed Steve’s hair back from his face with the other hand.  “It still wouldn’t have been your fault,” he said.

 

Steve shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut tight and didn’t move.  He couldn’t seem to make Tony see how it would have felt—it was _his blood_.  It would have been his fault, for volunteering in the first place, for letting them see that it had worked—if he had never taken it, he’d have never met Tony, they’d never have been able to use his blood to hurt him.

 

He knew exactly how irrational it was, but that—that was how it _felt_. The serum had never been meant to hurt anyone.  He knew that.

 

But it had, and not just Tony, either. His stomach hurt, a jumbled mess of emotions that he couldn’t put a name to or place.  His head felt jumbled, too.

 

Tony was murmuring to him, just soothing phrases, stroking his hand through his hair, rubbing his back.  Steve’s breath hitched, ashamed, of being like this, of losing control like this, clinging to him like this.  “I’m sorry,” he said, hurriedly. “I’m sorry.”

 

Tony’s arms tightened, meaning he would have to shake him off if he wanted to move away, and Steve stilled so as not to do that. “Shh,” Tony said, quietly, “shh,” and Steve bit his bottom lip, forced himself to go quiet.  If Tony didn’t want to hear his apologies, he shouldn’t have to—he just—Steve didn’t know what to do, what to do with himself.

 

“I don’t like it either,” Tony said, after a moment. “Knowing I was being used to hurt you. It was . . . awful.” He hesitated another moment and then said, “And humiliating.  You know. I should be stronger than that. I shouldn’t let them.” He pulled back just a little, raised his hand to touch Steve’s face again and smiled sadly.  “I could see it,” he said.  “In your face.”  His face hardened a little, and Steve could see the echoes of anger there, and then he blew out his breath and it faded.  “Part of me,” he said, and laughed, a little painfully, “wished you didn’t care about me. So it wouldn’t hurt you. Wouldn’t matter. And you could have just laughed in their faces.”

 

“Tony,” Steve said, aghast.  “No.”

 

Tony shifted a little, another half-shrug. “Maybe that’s stupid,” he said, and looked away, and Steve wasn’t often gifted with insight into Tony’s thought processes, but in that moment he felt certain he was thinking _because I’m not worth that_.  “But I thought it.  I’m just saying, the whole point was to make us both miserable over it. Because we care . . . about each other.” His voice was very hoarse now. “After all, we’d hardly be offending their sensibilities and knocking boots otherwise, right? I mean, I suppose we might be just having a little fun on the side, but . . . .”

 

“That’s not what you are to me,” Steve said. “And hey—hey.” He turned Tony’s face back toward him, keeping his fingers gentle on his neck.  “It was worth all of that,” he said, and meant every word, “to be with you.” He swallowed, heavily. “And it would be again,” he said. “Any day of the week. You’re worth all that and more.”

 

Tony leveled a serious stare on him, his eyes dark. Steve looked right back, not looking away, willing Tony to see how sincere he was, how he meant every word. Maybe even to believe it.

 

Finally, Tony sighed, and a little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  He looked away.  “Careful,” he said, “or you’ll make my ego even bigger than it already is.”

 

“I’m not worried about that,” Steve said. Sure, Tony could be arrogant, but not in what they were talking about just then.

 

Tony just shrugged.  There was a moment of silence, and then he looked at him again, from under his eyelashes.  “It goes both ways, you know,” he said, quietly.  “I’d take that every damn day if it was the price of being with you.”

 

“Don’t say that,” Steve told him.

 

Tony’s mouth quirked wryly.  “What, you can and I can’t?” he asked.  “I can say it or not, but it’s still true, either way.”

 

“I don’t like to think about you being hurt because of me,” Steve said.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Tony said, and sighed, leaning back into the pillows again.  “But it’s worth it.” His eyes were warm and slightly amused when he said, “It’s going to take a lot more than that to scare me off.”

 

“Well,” Steve said, wrong-footed, his chest still aching, “let me make it up to you, even so.”

 

“You mean by getting me out of there, finding me a place to sleep, getting me a shower, sharing it with me, cleaning me up, dressing my wounds, buying me clothes, and making me dinner?” Tony asked, his eyes sparking with a warm sort of mischief.  “Something like that?”

 

“You’ve got a smart mouth, Stark,” Steve told him. “Yeah.  All that.  By keeping you safe.”  He looked down, and sighed. He knew his protectiveness was out of place.  Tony could take care of himself.  And he did, most of the time. It was just—right now, he was hurt. And Steve could do this for him. “Just for a while.”

 

“A limited time offer, huh?” Tony said, smiling a little more.  “Okay, Rogers. You’re on.”

 

“Really?” Steve asked, a little surprised by that. He’d thought Tony would give him a hard time.  “I mean, great. Good.  I’ll do that.  I . . . I will.”  He smiled at him. “Thank you.”

 

Tony tilted his head to one side and smiled a little more, his eyes half-closing.  “Do you even know how goddamn adorable you are sometimes?” he asked.

 

“I’m just happy to get a chance to take care of you,” Steve said.

 

Tony smiled a little more.  “I know, babydoll,” he said.  “That’s what’s adorable.  C’mere, give me a kiss first.”

 

Steve blushed a little, annoyed with his own cheeks for heating, but he leaned forward and touched his lips lightly to Tony’s, still pleased with his acceptance of Steve’s caretaking for right then. Tony let his arms slide back down, but he leaned into the kiss, deepening it just a bit to give it just a bit of warmth.  Steve found himself smiling as he pulled back and away, touching Tony’s cheek gently as he did. “Now you just rest,” he said.

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, looking up at him, rather earnestly, especially compared to how he’d been talking.  “I will.  It’s pretty nice, honestly, Steve.  I’m warm now, and it’s . . . well, it’s just nice.”

 

Steve knew what he meant.  It felt like the warehouse they’d been taken to with its gray concrete walls and agony was half the country and weeks away now, instead of the matter of a few miles and several hours.  It simply had nothing to do with this small seaside cabin with the smell of the damp, salty night air coming in through the window, the sound of the surf, and the warm woodsmoke smell of the wood stove filling the room around them. “Not bad, huh?” he said, with some pride. He smiled at Tony. “You seem like you’re feeling better, too.”

 

“Well, I’m not planning to run a marathon or anything any time soon,” Tony said, tipping his head back against the couch cushions and watching Steve as he went back to the stove.  “But yeah, I think the serum is mostly done with me by now. I didn’t even vomit, I’m kind of impressed.”

 

“Don’t talk about it,” Steve advised, “you’ll get nauseous.”

 

“What’s that,” Tony asked, “the out of sight, out of mind approach to nausea?”

 

“It works better than you’d think,” Steve said, shrugging, as he put the milk in a saucepan on the burner of the stove.

 

“I think I’ll be fine,” Tony said dryly.

 

“I hope so,” Steve said, concentrating on melting the chocolate in the milk, breaking it up into smallish pieces.

 

“Well, I know I’ll be fine eventually,” Tony said.

 

Steve laughed and shook his head. “Rest, Tony, okay?” he said.

 

“Mmm,” Tony said.  “I am resting.  I’m all . . . warm, and comfortable.  Things don’t hurt so much right now.  Actually. At all.”

 

“That’s good,” Steve said, and it was, it was so good to hear that.  He started stirring the milk with the spoon.  “I’m glad,” he said, heartfelt.

 

“The scientist in me wants to credit the aspirin,” Tony said, “but really, I think it has more to do with you.”

 

Steve felt his face heating up again and sighed at his complexion.  He was so damn fair, and it was like he couldn’t keep himself from blushing at the slightest damn thing. “It’s probably the aspirin,” he said, ignoring the warm glow in his chest.  He was being stupid, going all ga-ga just because Tony said he was making him feel better.  What was he trying to prove?  All he wanted was for Tony to feel better.

 

And well, to take care of him. He wanted that, too. So he supposed the reaction did make sense—it just made him feel, well, foolish.

 

“Hmm,” Tony said.  “I don’t know about that.  And I’m the scientist here.  So.”

 

“You’re an engineer,” Steve pointed out.

 

“I know plenty about biology,” Tony said.

 

“Is that like how Hank knows plenty about robotics?” Steve asked.

 

“Wow,” Tony said.  “Harsh.  But, you know, a fair shot.  Of course. It would be, with you. But no, thank you, didn’t you notice that I managed to rewrite Extremis’s effects to my entire body without doing anything terrible to myself or turning into a supervillain?”

 

“Almost,” Steve pointed out.

 

“Ow,” Tony said.  “Brutally honest as always, baby.”

 

Steve shrugged.  It was the truth.  Though he didn’t like thinking about it any more than Tony did—they only been together for a few weeks at that point, and then Tony had started acting strange and distant, shutting him out, and it had ended with Tony stopping his heart to save him.

 

He couldn’t get it out of his head, but he also never wanted to think about it ever again.  He rubbed one hand back over his face, still stirring the chocolate. “Well, you came out of it all right, I guess,” he said.  And he supposed he should be thankful for Extremis.  It had saved Tony today, maybe more than once.  Steve had no idea how idea Tony would have fared during all that with his weak heart.

 

He still didn’t like it, the . . . idea of it, but he . . . was glad to have Tony still with him.  Still here.  Just about anything was worth that.  Not . . . anything, but, well, most things.

 

“I’ll come out of this just fine, too,” Tony said. “Extremis should even take care of any scars.  Just give me a few days and I’ll be good as new, Steve.”

 

“You’re still going to medical when the team finds us,” Steve said.  Tony started to argue, but he raised his voice to talk over him.  “No arguments.  You can still get an infection, and that would still be nasty.  Nothing you should have to deal with.”  It could still make him pretty sick, as far as Steve understood it. And he just—he understood the reasoning behind not taking Tony to the hospital, but he still wanted him to get checked out by professionals.  Steve had had field training, and he kept up with his first aid and CPR certifications, but he definitely wasn’t a professional in the field, and the doctors at SHIELD already knew about Extremis, at least, even if they didn’t exactly know how to handle it.

 

“Steve,” Tony said.  “They won’t be able to do anything that Extremis can’t already handle, and they won’t be able to make heads or tails of it, either. It’ll just confuse them. There’s no point—”

 

“Point or no point,” Steve said. “I want you to get checked out.” He tested the heat of the chocolate and milk mixture with one finger against the back of the spoon, then licked it off. It wasn’t bad, and just hot enough. The texture looked good. He took it off the heat and poured a little more of the cream into it, added sugar and just a pinch of salt and a bit of the vanilla extract and started to stir.

 

“Really, Steve?” Tony said.  He sighed, and out of the corner of his eye Steve saw him tilt his head to look over at him.  “You’re going to be stubborn about this, aren’t you?” he asked.

 

“Yep,” Steve said.  “You bet.”

 

Tony sighed again.  “It won’t do any good,” he said.  “They’ll just get all excited about getting to poke and prod at Extremis, and it will just confuse them when they can’t figure it out.”

 

“Well, that should be fun for you,” Steve said.

 

Tony laughed.  “Contrary to popular belief, apparently,” he said, “I don’t actually get a kick out of watching other people mentally struggle with difficult concepts.”

 

“You don’t?” Steve asked, smiling a bit now as he poured the chocolate into two separate large mugs.  “You could have fooled me.”

 

“Oh, my God,” Tony said.  “You are such a shit.  _No_ , Steven Rogers, I don’t. Sometimes I wonder about you, though.”

 

“I’m not prepared to admit to anything on that front,” Steve said, laughing.  “A good leader never laughs at his team.”

 

“So what am I?” Tony demanded. “You’re laughing at me right now.”

 

“Co-lead,” Steve said.  “And my partner.  Laughing at your partner is not only acceptable, it’s a long and honorable tradition.”

 

“And have you shared this ‘tradition’ with Wilson?” Tony demanded.  “Or am I just special that way?”

 

Steve crossed the room and set both mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table.  “Sam gets it even worse than you do,” he said.  “I take it easy on you, Stark.  Seeing as how I have a soft spot for you and all.”  He smiled at Tony as he picked up his mug and turned to him, pressing it into his hands.

 

“Oh, do you?” Tony murmured, looking up at him and grinning. He was looking at him from under his eyelashes again, but this time it didn’t even look like he was trying to be flirty or seductive—his face was open and honest and laughing and soft. Steve loved seeing him like that.

 

“Sure do,” Steve said, and reached out to brush his fingers gently along his face, smiling back at him, before he returned to the kitchen to wash out the pots and pans.  Milk tended to dry unpleasantly, and he didn’t want it to stink the place up.

 

“Yours will get cold,” Tony called after him.

 

“I’ll be back in just a second,” Steve said. “Just have to get this squared away.”

 

“Don’t be surprised if I drink yours,” Tony mumbled, and Steve laughed.

 

It didn’t take long to wash up, putting the rest of the soup away in the refrigerator in a plastic container he found in the cupboard, just in case he wanted to eat it later, and rinsing out that pot, too, and then he was returning to the couch.  He slid in beside Tony this time, pulling the coffee table a bit closer, and arranged himself under the blankets, gently settling an arm around Tony’s shoulders. Tony made a pleased noise and shifted closer, letting Steve pull him in until his head was pillowed on Steve’s shoulder. He was holding his mug cradled in both hands, and he curled trustingly into Steve’s side, letting his knees rest against Steve’s.  Steve let his hand settle against the side of Tony’s shoulder, pulled him in a bit, before letting his hand slide up to his neck and start to rub there, avoiding the bandaged wounds. Tony closed his eyes and sighed, body settling more heavily in against Steve’s.

 

“How do you feel about sleeping right here tonight?” Steve asked.  “On the couch.”

 

“I like it,” Tony said, soft and a bit drowsy again. “It’s close to the stove, it’s warm, and sitting up like this is . . . probably better.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, brushing Tony’s hair back from his face, lingering over his forehead, the bandages on his cheeks. He didn’t want to think about how much pain Tony would be in if he tried to sleep on his back, and his front side wasn’t much better off.  His sides weren’t exactly unscathed, either.  Sitting up was best.  “You can just lean on me, how’s that?”

 

Tony smiled a little, without opening his eyes. “Sounds perfect,” he said. “Like . . . I said. Couldn’t ask for a better pillow.”

 

Steve gave a little bit of a self-conscious smile, still rubbing at Tony’s shoulder.  “Good,” he said.  “I’m glad.” That way he could keep an eye on Tony, too, monitor him during the night more easily.  It wasn’t like he’d be able to sleep a wink without knowing how Tony was doing—without having him right there, Steve doubted he’d be able to even close his eyes.

 

Tony’s head nodded against his shoulder, but then he seemed to wake again and lifted his head, took another sip of his hot chocolate. “Sitting up with you cuddling all night,” he said, voice thick and sleepily husky.  “It’s like you said.  Getaway to the shore.”

 

Steve smiled a little more at that, feeling something stop up in his throat with emotion.  “Yeah,” he said thickly, squeezing Tony’s shoulder where his hand rested. “Just like that.”

 

“’S perfect,” Tony said.  “Hot chocolate, my gorgeous, thoughtful honey of a boyfriend right here, the sound of the water, the wood stove . . . haven’t been on a trip like this for forever.”  His head settled a little more heavily against Steve’s.  “If every time we get nabbed is going to end up like this I volunteer for next time.”

 

“Or we could just come here next time and skip the torture,” Steve offered, low, pressing his lips into Tony’s hair again.

 

“Hey,” Tony said, dryly, “why didn’t I think of that?” He sighed a little more, pressed his nose against Steve’s cheek, so that he could feel the soft scratch of his facial hair against his skin.  “We just never seem to get a break, that’s all,” he said, quietly.

 

“We could change that,” Steve said, a little desperately.  “Go away for a few days.  Together.”

 

Tony tilted his head back, just a bit, to look up at him. “Hey,” he said, “yeah, we could. We could.”  He blinked, was quiet a moment, then said, “Would you like that, honey?”

 

Steve felt himself flush, yet again, just a little. He looked down. “I guess so,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.  It probably sounded really stupid to Tony.  He was used to flying off to Swiss chateaus and white sand beaches with girls who wore very little clothing.  Steve wasn’t used to that.  To him, just leaving the city was still special.  Going to the seaside was something that other people did, not him.

 

Tony smiled a little, though, almost dreamy. “We could come back here sometime,” he said, leaning into Steve’s side, his shoulder, a little more. “Have the place to ourselves. No Red Skull or any other creeps in sight.”

 

“Yeah?” Steve asked.  He turned his own cup of cocoa around in his hands, trying to ignore the hope that rose inside him at that.  “You think so?”

 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Tony said, his voice still rather soft.  “It sounds like a great time.”

 

“I’m not sure if they have any wireless internet,” Steve said, apologetically.

 

“It’s a blow,” Tony said, smiling a little, “but I could do without for a few days.  For you.” He smiled a little more, looking up at him.  “It’d probably be good for me,” he said.  “Unplug for a few days. Relax.  Besides, it’d be a vacation.  I’d want to spend the time with you.”

 

Steve had a feeling his ears were red, and his cheeks felt very pink.  Just the thought of that—and all Tony’s attention on him—just the two of them, together, spending time together with nothing else in particular to do, had him warm, a sunny warmth unfolding in his belly and spreading up to his chest. “Yeah,” he said, “I’d like that.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, and leaned in, his lips brushing his cheek as he murmured into his ear.  “I’ll make it happen,” he said, softly, lips along the shell of Steve’s ear now. “A weekend together at the beach. How’s that sound?”

 

“Just perfect,” Steve said, voice still a little choked, his cheeks still warm.  He didn’t trust himself to look over at Tony, quite, but he slid his hand into his hair, ruffled it lightly.

 

Tony kissed his ear, lightly, then leaned his head against Steve’s, bring his mug up to sip at his hot chocolate again. Steve belatedly remembered to take a swallow of his own.

 

It wasn’t bad, he thought with pleasure. The vanilla was nice, and it was rich and creamy.  It was still nicely warm. That was good. He was hoping it could warm Tony up from the inside out, too.  And, well, Steve had also been a little cold.  It had been a . . . long, hard day, and he’d spent most of it feeling cold down to his core, for reasons that had nothing to do with temperature. He took another sip. He was fairly proud of himself; both this and the soup had turned out pretty damn good.  Not bad for someone who really didn’t know much about cooking. He was glad.  He’d definitely wanted to feed Tony something decent, after all that grief.

 

“Do you really think we could?” Steve asked, looking down at the hot chocolate, then out the dark windows at the sea.

 

“Why not?” Tony asked, still sipping his hot chocolate. “Take a few days.”

 

“A lot of reasons,” Steve said with a little laugh, thinking about how busy they were, their responsibilities, everything they had to do, not least leading and training the new team.

 

Tony shrugged, closed his eyes against Steve’s shoulder.  “I know how this is going to sound, coming from me,” he said.  “But I’ve learned over the years that if you don’t take some time for yourself, you’re never going to get it.”

 

“Hypocritical, you mean?” Steve said with a bit of a smile.

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, blinking his eyes back open and smiling wryly at Steve, taking another sip.  “Something like that.”

 

“It’s just,” Steve said, and then sighed. “It’s been a hard year, I guess,” he said, heavily, thinking back to all the deaths, the dissolution of the Avengers. He still felt as if—maybe if only he had done something else, maybe if he had seen what was happening with Wanda sooner—maybe.  Maybe not. Maybe there was nothing anyone could have done.  Tony tilted his head back, looked up at him, as if waiting for him to continue.  “And I just—I thought—this, you, this, getting with you, it was the one really good thing that happened, and I thought, to lose you—and to _him_ of all people—and we’d never really done anything together, never really . . . I don’t know. It hasn’t even been that long that we’ve been together.”  He swallowed. “Not that it hasn’t been good, really good,” he added hastily.  “It’s been . . . wonderful.”  He couldn’t even say how much.  It was just that—he hadn’t wanted all the time he’d had with Tony to be stolen moments, and the promise of more, later, that they’d take time later.  Nights together and a few stolen kisses, stolen hours—but they’d been so busy.  And if that had been all—he’d always been left wondering, what it could really have been like—

 

“You were never going to lose me, Steve,” Tony murmured.  He moved one hand down, patted gently just above Steve’s knee.

 

“I almost did,” Steve said, and it came out choked. “Twice, in a couple of months. Three times if you count—if you count what happened with Wanda, and the others, and the Avengers.”

 

“It’s not going to happen,” Tony said. “Extremis makes me stronger, less fragile, you don’t have to _worry_ about that—”

 

“I’m going to,” Steve said flatly. “Anyway. I’m going to worry about you no matter what, Tony.  So you can forget that.” He sucked in his breath. “God, that was another time, and I didn’t even know.  Not until it was too late to do anything.  And there was the Skull’s chemical weapon, that thing that happened, at Mount Rushmore, when you—”

 

“Steve, stop,” Tony said.  He moved his hand up, rested it against Steve’s stomach. “This is our lives. It’s going to happen. It’s . . . it’s who we are. You can’t do this just because it . . . we might die.  That could happen any time.”

 

Steve blew his breath out.  “But how many of those times were because of me?” he asked, and it came out very quiet.  He looked down, turned his mug in his hands.

 

There was a moment of silence. “I’m sorry if it bothers you, honey,” Tony said then, “but the fact is that I’d do anything to save you. Nothing’s going to change that.”

 

“Even if I asked you not to?” Steve asked, swallowing hard.  He knew Tony better than that, and even saying this was selfish, might hurt him, he knew that, but he couldn’t keep the words back.  He knew he should, but somehow he couldn’t.  “I never asked you to die for me.”

 

“Who does?” Tony said, with wry, black humor. He skimmed his hand up Steve’s chest until it rested over his heart.  “But . . . yes? Even then.”  His face turned more serious, graver.  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you can’t ask me to just stand back and let you die, or suffer, not when I could do something. I mean . . . what would you do? If it were me?”

 

Steve sighed, stared straight ahead. He could feel his jaw working. “Anything I could,” he said, eventually. “Of course.”  And it would be worth it.  He knew that.  And he knew Tony felt the same way. It was just—it felt different, when it was Tony suffering, maybe dying, for his sake.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Tony said softly, and turned his head, let his lips brush along Steve’s cheek.  “Of course, it’s not fun, I grant you.”

 

Steve had to smile a little at that, even though it felt forced, a bit twisted, on his lips.  “Yeah,” he said.  “It’s really not.”

 

Tony twisted a bit, reached up with his hand and linked it around Steve’s neck, pulling his head down a bit until he could press his lips to his.  Steve went willingly, letting him, leaning into the kiss.  Tony’s mouth tasted like chocolate now, and the kiss was warm and slow, the softness of it making it feel tender.  Steve ended up holding his own mug with one hand, the other settling at the back of Tony’s neck to hold him as the kiss went on, soft and slow. It was only after long moments that Tony pulled back, rubbing his thumb gently against Steve’s jaw, and looked up at him, eyes heavy-lidded and sleepy, warm and soft beneath their lids. “We got through it, sweetheart,” he said.  “And I—I’m sorry if you’ve been wanting more time together.  I can do that.”

 

Steve sighed.  “You don’t need to,” he said.  He hadn’t meant to make Tony feel as if their time together had been lacking in any way. “We’ll get there,” he added.

 

Tony’s face twisted, just a bit, as if unhappy with that.  “I’d like to make you happy,” he said with a sigh.  “Can you let me do that?  Honey?”

 

Steve frowned, let his fingers move back, brush against Tony’s poor bruised, swollen throat.  “You do make me happy,” he said, hoarsely, and let his own eyes slide closed, just for a moment.  “So—so happy, Tony.  I don’t think you have any idea, sometimes.”

 

“I’m sure I can do better,” Tony said, hoarsely. “Make you happier. Than—than I am. Have been.”

 

There it was again, Tony’s insistence that he wasn’t doing well enough, that he could do better, do more, always, that _he_ wasn’t enough. Steve opened his eyes. “Tony,” he said, and brushed the backs of his fingers against his jaw.  “Any time I get to spend with you is enough.  Is special.  You’re enough, yourself. You don’t have to give me anything more.”

 

“I want to,” Tony murmured, his eyes flicking down to his hot chocolate.  He rubbed one side of the mug with his thumb.  “You deserve better.”

 

“No,” Steve said, and his voice came out hoarse again, thick.  “I don’t. No one could.”

 

“You could have higher standards,” Tony said, rough, but sounding as if he wanted to make a joke out of it.

 

“Excuse me, Stark, my standards are very high,” Steve told him, sliding his hand up to curl it into his hair. He kissed the side of Tony’s head. “You just happen to meet them, buster.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, looking down at his hot chocolate.  “That was—that was a stupid thing to say.”

 

“It’s all right,” Steve said, running his fingers through his hair, along his neck, down the back of it.  “It’s all right.”

 

Tony turned his face to rest it against Steve’s shoulder.  “Just . . . can you tell me?” he said, lowly.  “If you want something?  So I can try to give it to you, at least?”

 

“Usually you think of things I would like before I even have any idea,” Steve said, wry.  He scratched his fingers gently, very gently, along Tony’s scalp, alternately with rubbing the tips of them there just as gently.  Tony sighed, and his head grew heavy on Steve’s shoulder. “I just want you,” Steve murmured, against the top of his head.

 

“You don’t ask for much,” Tony mumbled. “I—I can do better.”

 

Steve’s stomach twisted and hurt. “I don’t need better, sweetheart,” he murmured, moving his head down to kiss Tony’s temple again, Tony’s drying hair fluffing up against his nose, his cheek.

 

“I can do more time together,” Tony said, stubbornly, still mumbling and his words slurring now, as if with weariness. “I can.”

 

“Shh,” Steve told him, setting his own mug down between his legs so he could reach over and steady Tony’s with one hand. “Shhh.”

 

“I want to,” Tony said.  “Too.  You know? Be with you more. But I’m always working. I missed you.  When the team was . . . you know.”

 

Steve felt a little thrill go through him at that, low and quiet, beneath everything else.  He’d wondered—he’d wanted that, in a selfish part of him, Tony to have missed Steve as much as he’d missed him.  Because he’d missed him . . . so much, like part of himself missing, and having a team again, with him—it had felt like having him back, even before they’d ended up in bed together.  “I missed you, too,” he said, quietly, rubbing his fingers against Tony’s face, along his jaw.

 

“I love you,” Tony said, bleary, unsteady, and pressed his face in against Steve’s neck.  “I just want to make you happy.  I’m sorry. I’m not good at that. I always fuck it up somehow. But I want to. I really do, Steve. Sunshine.”

 

“You do make me happy,” Steve murmured against Tony’s hair.  “You really do.” Maybe someday he’d believe that. Steve could hope.

 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger,” Tony said, and his rough, hoarse voice sounded wavering and almost fragile, for the first time that day, Steve thought.  “I made you suffer, too.”

 

Oh, hell.  Steve swallowed hard, forced down the violent denial that wanted to come out of his mouth and just smoothed Tony’s hair back from his face again. “Weren’t you just telling me I couldn’t blame myself?” he asked, keeping his voice as gentle as he could. “That the Skull just wanted to hurt me, and this was the best way?”

 

Tony shrugged.  His face looked tired, sad, and his eyes fluttered shut. Steve cupped his hand under his chin, brought his head up, rubbed his thumb at the side of his face, just against the skin at the side of his eye, until Tony opened them again. “You were so strong,” he said, and meant it, put all the respect, the genuine admiration he felt, into his voice. “How could you have been any stronger? No one could ask for more, Shellhead.”

 

“I didn’t feel strong,” Tony said, with a sad little quirk of his lips like he was trying to smile.  “Screaming like he wanted, I—”

 

Steve stroked his hair back from his face a little more and kissed his forehead, again.  “You never feel strong,” he told him.  “That’s not how it works.  They want you to feel weak, like whatever you do, they win.”

 

“You have some experience, huh?” Tony muttered. He sounded tired.

 

“I think most of us do,” Steve said. He knew this wasn’t the first time Tony had been tortured, either.  “But yeah.” And it wasn’t the first time he’d had to witness it happening to someone he was close to, either. His mind flashed back to Bucky again, screwing up his face and trying not to scream for Zemo.

 

Yeah. He knew how it went.

 

“It’s true,” Tony said, slowly, as if thinking. “You never feel strong.” He blinked up at Steve, wearily. “Be honest, Cap. Just tell me.  Give it to me straight.  Please? Don’t try to make me feel better.” He took a deep breath, blew it out. “Did I—did I do good? Did I make you proud?”

 

Steve blinked, in surprise.  It wasn’t a question he’d been expecting—it wasn’t a question he’d thought to hear out of Tony’s mouth any time soon, to be honest. He supposed he hadn’t realized that would be something that Tony was worrying about.  Especially not still, even then, hours after the fact.

 

Maybe Tony thought more about that sort of thing, was more worried about making Steve proud of him, about Steve’s opinion of him, than Steve had ever realized.  “Yeah,” he said, stroking Tony’s hair back again, cupping his jaw in his hand. “So proud.  Couldn’t be prouder, Avenger.”  And it was true.  Of course it was.  True as anything.

 

Tony smiled a little, soft, half-disbelieving as if warmed by it, affected.  “Really?” he said. His eyes were unfocused, but there was a certain light to them now.

 

“Really,” Steve told him, running his thumb along his chin, along his jaw.  “Would I lie to you? About something like that?”

 

Tony smiled a little more, let his head duck down, his eyelashes cover his eyes.  “Guess not,” he said, then, after a moment, “thanks.  Steve.”

 

“’Course,” Steve said.  He leaned down to put his hot chocolate back on the coffee table, then pulled Tony forward, into his arms, taking his cocoa from him while he did.  He wrapped one arm loosely around his back, still holding the mug in his hand, and squeezed his other hand at the back of Tony’s neck, pressing his face into Steve’s shoulder, pressing his own face into Tony’s hair.  Tony made a soft sound, let his face be pushed into Steve’s shoulder, leaning forward, into it, just a bit.  He felt like he wanted to lean forward more, but didn’t quite trust his battered body to cooperate. Steve stroked the back of his neck. “You were so strong,” he told Tony again.  “You—you got me through, back there.”  He took a deep breath, felt it hitch in his throat, and swallowed, blew it out, and it came out wet and wavering.  “You always get me through.”

 

And it was true.  Tony had been there for Steve through so much.  So many times that Steve hadn’t even realized until they were long past, how he’d looked to him, leaned on him.  Needed him.  Tony made Steve stronger every time.  They were always better together.  Now that Steve was thinking about—well, he was thinking about it, now. Tony was—he was so important. To Steve.

 

“I just wanted to help,” Tony said, husky and thick against Steve’s neck.  “Get through it. I don’t know.  I’m sorry today sucked, tiger.”

 

“So am I,” Steve said, kissing the side of Tony’s ear. He closed his eyes. “But that wasn’t your fault.”

 

“Not yours either,” Tony mumbled.

 

“Okay,” Steve said, smiling now, despite himself. “Okay, I get you.”

 

“I want my hot chocolate,” Tony said, still in that sleepy mumble.  “Not that cuddling with you isn’t nice, apple pie.”

 

Steve laughed.  “Yeah, okay,” he said, and shifted Tony in his arms a bit until he could press the mug back into his hands, still holding it to be certain Tony had it. “You good?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, taking in a deep breath, practically burying his nose in the mug, then taking a big swallow. “That’s so nice,” he said sleepily.

 

“I’ll make you some more, with some coffee in it, tomorrow morning,” Steve promised.

 

“Mmm,” Tony said.  “Mmm. You’re spoiling me.”

 

“You bet,” Steve told him.  He didn’t trust any solid food in Tony’s stomach just yet, not that night or the next morning—the least he could do was make up for it with something nice, liquids that he knew Tony loved.

 

“Don’t need to do that,” Tony slurred, but he took another sip of the hot chocolate and leaned his head against Steve’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

 

“I want to,” Steve said.  “Besides, sure I do.  Your fella gets tortured, you spoil him rotten.  That’s how it goes, Stark.  Study up.”

 

“S’not a real thing,” Tony said after a moment and another swallow of hot chocolate.  His head felt very heavy against Steve’s shoulder now.

 

“It is to me,” Steve said, smiling a little. He kissed Tony’s forehead again, lingering this time, soft, then the corner of Tony’s eye, feeling it crinkle up as Tony smiled.

 

“Sweet,” he said.  “You’re sweet, Steve.”

 

“Well,” Steve said, reasonably, he thought, “I do love you.  Easy to be sweet to a guy you’re sweet on.” 

 

Tony smiled a little more, drowsy, and sipped his hot chocolate.  His face was very soft, sleepy, hair curling down into his eyes soft and just a bit fluffy from the shower as it dried.  His features were swollen with bruises—over his cheeks, along his jaw, on his forehead, around the bandages, and with that and his swollen neck he looked like he’d been through the wrong side of a couple different boxing matches, but he was still one of the most handsome men Steve had ever seen.

 

He’d always thought Tony was just fantastically attractive, almost too handsome to be believed, with his angular features and soft mouth and high cheekbones, the sophisticated, movie-star looks he had combined with the honest, brilliant energy and vitality that didn’t entirely line up with the classy looks.  Right now he was battered and a bit of a mess, dressed in a too-large, cheap sweatshirt that didn’t fit him and half asleep, but Steve still got a little thrill just from having his arm around him. Sweet on him was right, Steve was a ways past that; he was completely stupid about him.  Tony made his heart squeeze and ache, his stomach jump and turn over and fill up with butterflies, just by looking at him, even just like he was doing now, half asleep and bleary-eyed. 

 

Maybe even more, feeling the trust in the way Tony was lying against him, barely holding himself up, heavy and almost limp against Steve’s side.  He had to be so exhausted, and so sore, and the knowledge of that was a heavy weight in Steve’s stomach, but there was something different about him like this, open and soft. No armor, Steve thought, in more ways than one.  And he was just—he was just honored Tony trusted him enough to be this vulnerable with him. Even if he was hurt, and exhausted, and couldn’t really manage a façade of any kind, he wasn’t trying to hide it, wasn’t even bothering to attempt to seem strong, or on top of things, or even particularly aware, was just curled up into Steve’s side. Like he was comfortable there.

 

“Mmm,” Tony said.  “I guess it is.”  He blinked again, thick, heavy lashes flicking down slow over his eyes, even slower to come back up.  “Just wait,” he said. “You just don’t . . .” he yawned “. . . don’t know all my faults yet.”

 

God, again.  Steve sighed, thought about how to respond to that.  “Yeah,” he finally said dryly.  “I barely know you.  I mean, I’ve only been friends with you for a decade, give or take.  We really jumped into this.  I hardly know you at all.”

 

“Very funny,” Tony said faintly, and pressed his face in against Steve’s shoulder again, almost nuzzling against him. “And you say I’m a smartass.”

 

Steve steadied Tony’s grip on his mug of chocolate. “You are,” he pointed out as he reached down for his own again, taking a big gulp, hoping to finish it before it got entirely cold.

 

“Well, so are you,” Tony muttered, sipping at his own hot chocolate again.

 

“Never said I wasn’t,” Steve said. He took another gulp of his, then drained the rest of it, setting his mug back down.  He looked out at the sea again, still rubbing his thumb along the back of Tony’s neck, along the side of it.  He could feel his pulse beating under his fingers, the freshly-showered warmth of him, though overall he smelled like antiseptic wipes and chocolate.

 

“I guess not . . .” Tony said, his voice sounding floaty and vague.  Steve gave it another moment, letting himself concentrate on the beat of Tony’s pulse. Tony sipped more of his chocolate. His head was leaning so heavily against Steve’s, against his shoulder, that Steve wouldn’t be surprised if he started falling asleep.  He brought up his other hand and curled it around Tony’s, enjoying feeling the warmth of Tony’s fingers under his, making sure he didn’t drop his mug right into his lap.

 

“How are you feeling?” Steve asked, still holding his hand supportively against Tony’s.

 

“Sore,” Tony said, and smiled tiredly. “Not bad, though. Not as sharp now, and I feel less . . . well, less sick.  As long as I stay still, it’s all fine.”  He smiled a little more. “My head’s spinning, though. You’re all warm, and . . . it’s warm, and it’s . . . I don’t know.  But it’s nice.  It’s hard to focus.”

 

“Are you comfortable for sleeping there?” Steve asked. He shifted his hand on Tony’s neck, rubbing it gently, so gently, over his shoulders.  They felt tight, knotted with pain.  Carefully, he started to rub them out, trying not to press on anything sensitive.  “Tell me if that hurts,” he added.

 

Tony blew out a low, unsteady breath. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said. “Ah—it’s nice. And . . . I guess so? Yes.  I’m comfortable enough to sleep.  I’ll, um, have to go to the bathroom again before I sleep, though.”

 

“Just let me know,” Steve told him, unperturbed. “How sore are your arms?”

 

“Sore,” Tony said, ruefully.  “Not unbearable, but sore.”

 

“I bet,” Steve said.  “I could get you another cold pack, if you want.”

 

“Nah,” Tony said.  His face tightened a bit, then smoothed out.  “I’d rather be warm and sore, honey,” he said, and scooted in toward Steve’s side a little more.

 

“You might regret that tomorrow,” Steve said, shifting to accommodate Tony’s moving toward him, still supporting his hand around his mug.  He ran his hand lightly through Tony’s hair, stroking and tousling it gently, before dropping it back to his shoulders to continue his careful rubbing.

 

“Yeah,” Tony said.  “I might.  I’ll live with it. Take things as they come. But you’ll still be here. All warm and sturdy.”

 

Steve smiled a little at that. “Warm and sturdy, huh?” he said.

 

“ _Oh_ yeah,” Tony said.  “Very sturdy.” He winked at him, then closed his eyes again. Steve pulled him a little closer, and started to massage his way down one arm, the one not holding his hot chocolate, carefully avoiding his wounds, trying to work out at least a few of the aches.  Tony winced and hissed, but when Steve stilled his hand said, “No, it’s good.  Please.”  Steve started up again, and he sighed, bringing his arm into his lap a bit to give Steve a better angle.  He took another swallow of his hot chocolate, then finished the cup.  “That was good,” he said, laying his head down on Steve’s shoulder. Steve took the cup from him and set it aside, then pulled Tony back against him.

 

“Hey,” he said, “how about I turn you around?” It would be easier to massage his arms then.

 

“Sure,” Tony said, and yawned, hiding it in his shoulder.  Steve got one hand under him and turned him around, settled him in against him—not resting against his chest, but close to it, so that he would be if he leaned back rather than with his shoulder and side against the couch cushion the way he was. Steve started massaging his arm again, this time starting at his palm and working his way up.

 

They didn’t talk for a while after that. Steve was concentrating on working the tension and knots out of Tony’s poor strained arms without hitting any of the wounds he’d bandaged earlier, and Tony seemed like he was nodding off, or at least half asleep.  His breathing was even, and his heartbeat matched it.  With that, and the sound of the ocean outside, Steve felt somehow inexpressibly soothed, relieved, relaxing bit by bit, his nose buried in Tony’s soft mess of dark hair as he worked.

 

It took a long time, and the warmth of the cabin seemed to work its way into Steve as he sat there.  Tony was a heavy, slowly relaxing weight in his arms, both of them wrapped in blankets, and the room smelled like food and chocolate and the sea, the scent of the wood stove in the background, the linens and blankets close to Steve’s nose.  Tony was definitely relaxed, so wherever he was wandering close to sleep, his subconscious mind wasn’t stressing him at all.

 

Steve wondered how the Skull had even found out about him and Tony.  They hadn’t even revealed their relationship to SHIELD yet, after all.  Steve had gotten the distinct impression that the Skull had made time in a schedule that had been taken up with some other sort of plot because of the discovery that Steve liked men.  It was his style—after all, he’d done it before, though over something else, with Peggy and Gabe.

 

Steve hoped he was dead, but he doubted it. Failing that, he hoped this little detour had thrown one hell of a wrench in whatever his other plans were. Maybe Tony could discover something about that from the electronics Steve had stolen.  He still needed to ask him about that, but it could wait a few days for Tony to recover.  If nothing else, he hoped it had put Skull solidly behind schedule.  It had been a waste of all their time, and Steve hoped it hit him where it hurt.

 

He’d never understood it.  Whatever it was that drove the Skull to ruin even his own plans just because he’d discovered something that offended his bigoted sensibilities. It wasn’t just him, of course. Plenty of people had the same attitudes—the same ideas, that led them to go after people who were different from them, to spend massive amounts of effort and time on persecuting them, time that would be better spent on, well, just about anything, but especially on making their own lives better. Wanting to hurt Steve—that was expected, he could follow that.  But this had clearly been about the bee in his bonnet Skull had gotten about Steve’s sexual orientation. Like it had been before, when he’d been equally awful about Steve just being friends with Arnie and Michael. Of course, Steve had liked men back then, too.  He’d been into both gals and fellas his whole life.  But Skull hadn’t known that.

 

It just didn’t make a lot of sense. And how his attitude had changed toward Tony this time, since he’d found out—Steve felt himself gritting his teeth just thinking about it.  It wasn’t as if _Tony_ was any different (Tony had told Steve once that he’d been attracted to men before he’d been attracted to women, and when he’d had his first crush on a girl he’d been relieved, because maybe he wasn’t, after all).  It had nothing to do with a person’s character in the first place. But to act like that about Tony, like somehow simply finding out that he liked men as well as women made him no longer Iron Man but the names he’d called him, those vile, disgusting names—Tony, of all people, brave, amazing whip sharp Tony—it was ridiculous.

 

Steve shifted his arms, working on the upper parts of Tony’s arms now, where the wounds were worse, so he had to be more careful.

 

He worried, too.  He knew that Tony’s father had—had made him afraid of this part of himself, for a while.  Sometimes Tony still struggled with it, he hadn’t _said_ as much, but sometimes Steve saw something in his eyes, the fear, or tension, or frustration with himself, or the jealousy when he watched a same-sex couple walking down the street holding hands.  Steve and Tony never did that.  For a few different reasons, like their relationship not being public, for one, but Steve didn’t think Tony would even if they could.  It was too—it was too hard for him, right now.  That was all right.  That Steve did understand.

 

Even if he was disappointed, to know that Tony had also grown up with that fear, that shame and self-consciousness, pounded into his head.  And into his heart. It hurt, in a strange, vague sort of way, to know that even with all the time he’d been frozen, Tony hadn’t had an easier time of it, in so many of the ways that mattered.

 

He knew Tony knew better than to listen to Skull. But it had to have hurt. And Tony—he had said some of the same sorts of things to Steve, even before all this.  Of his own accord.  Called himself names, like the ones Skull had used, called himself a—a slut, or a whore. That sort of thing. Steve felt like it had more to do with other things than Tony’s sexual orientation, in Tony’s head, but . . . well, that couldn’t help, that was for sure.

 

He didn’t think any of Skull’s men had managed to follow them here, but Steve intended to stay up a bit longer and keep watch. Everything was quiet, though, and it had been hours since they’d come here—it had taken quite a while to shower and then tend to Tony’s injuries, and still longer to get Tony fed. Still, Steve knew that when things seemed quiet you let you guard down, and sometimes that was the exact moment everything went to hell.  Tony had said he’d used his armor to transmit a distress signal to the Avengers, but Steve still didn’t know how long it would take the team, new as they were, to respond.  He did hope they’d already have been looking for them.  Tony and he had been supposed to return in a matter of hours, from a routine mission, and that was most definitely not what had happened.  Still, he didn’t expect them until the next morning, at the earliest.

 

When he finished with Tony’s arms, he moved his hands up to the back of his neck, digging his thumbs in against Tony’s nape, massaging deeply, then moving them up along his skull, into his hair. Tony made a soft, sleepy sound, then a low groan of pleasure, but didn’t seem to wake.  Steve kept on massaging the back of his head, down along his neck, anyway, until he felt hardly any tension remaining in the muscles there, and carefully moved his hands backward, supporting Tony’s head with both of them as it fell back limply.  He moved his arms back, letting Tony’s head come to rest against his own shoulder, and curled his arms gently around his waist.  “Hey, Tony,” he said.  “Wake up a little for me.”  He kissed the top of his head again.  “Wake up.”

 

Tony groaned, but his eyes fluttered, long lashes heavy against his cheeks for a moment before they shifted upwards. He smiled a little at the sight of Steve, and shifted one arm up with another groan to brush his fingers against Steve’s cheek, along his jaw, rubbing his thumb along the line of it. “Hey there, handsome,” he murmured.

 

“Hey there, yourself,” Steve said, and Tony’s smile widened.  Steve lifted a hand, raised it to brush hair back of Tony’s forehead again.  “You wanted to use the bathroom?” Steve added.

 

“Oh, yeah,” Tony said, and groaned again as he tried to straighten up.  Steve got his arms under Tony’s and helped him up, then went a bit further and lifted him nearly to his feet before Tony managed to get them under him.  He slid his arm around Tony’s waist without making him ask for the help and got him as far as the bathroom.

 

“Yell if you need anything, all right?” he told him, and Tony nodded unsteadily.  Steve went back to the kitchen and started heating up some water, intending to add a heaping helping of honey and a little lemon juice for Tony to drink before he actually slept for the night.  Once he had it started, he headed back towards the bathroom and caught Tony just as he opened the door.  His hands were still damp from washing them when Steve caught one of them in his own and pulled Tony into his arms again.

 

“Quick on the uptake,” Tony murmured, a soft, rather bemused light in his eyes as he looked at Steve from where Steve stood with both arms around him, settling them at his waist.  Tony’s own hands came and rested at Steve’s waist, without much weight behind them.

 

“Yes, well, I’m looking out for you, aren’t I?” Steve asked, smiling back at him.

 

Tony shrugged and smiled a little himself. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you are. Doing a great job of it, too.”

 

“I’m trying,” Steve said.  At least, it could help make up for how he’d failed to do that earlier, he supposed.  It was better than nothing.  He raised one hand, rested it against Tony’s cheek.  “Is everything all right?”  He nodded at the bathroom, trying to make clear what he meant.

 

Tony smiled a little wryly.  “I’ll tell you if it isn’t,” he said.

 

It was a bit of an evasive answer, but then, that was just Tony.  Steve decided he probably wasn’t actually trying to hide anything, rubbed his thumb along Tony’s cheekbone, and let go.  He slid his arm around Tony again and helped him back out to the living area, then back onto the couch, before the water was ready and he mixed two heaping spoonfuls of honey into it, with just a dash of lemon juice, and brought it back for Tony to drink. “It’ll help your throat,” he pointed out, and Tony took it, looking up at him quietly for a moment, his eyes dark and thoughtful, before he took it and started to drink.

 

It was a few moments of sipping it, Tony looking out the dark window at the sea, before he spoke again.  “Thank you,” he said, “for looking out for me. It’s been . . . great. You’re good at it.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said.  Well, he’d been doing his best.  He wasn’t sure if it had been enough.  Tony had still gotten hurt, after all.  But it was something, at least.  He could do this much.  He was glad Tony felt like it was . . . enough.  Like it was helping.  “You’re welcome.”

 

Tony smiled at him a little, then went back to sipping the water, looking back out the window.  Another moment passed.  “So,” Tony said, still staring out the window.  “What happens if the Skull decides to tell everyone we’re together? For a little revenge, or something.”

 

“We’ll keep on the same way we always do,” Steve said. He sat down next to Tony, looked him in the eye.  “Why should it make any difference to us?”

 

Tony gave a slight, wry laugh, looked down just a bit. “A lot of people would say it made a lot of difference,” he said, running one finger along the rim of the mug before he took another sip.

 

“Well, it doesn’t make any difference to me,” Steve said.  He reached out and touched Tony’s shoulder.  “Hey. You hear me?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, still staring down at his mug. “It doesn’t make any difference.” He sighed.  “But it . . . changes things.  People will talk about it.  It might get nasty.  They’ll follow us around, try to get pictures.  Other villains might try this same shtick.”  He shrugged.

 

“It’s always the same thing,” Steve said. “It’s who we are. You told me, earlier, you said. We couldn’t pull back from relationships just because of who we are, and—”  And he didn’t want to pull back from this.  That was the thing.  He’d have done a lot to stay with Tony, to be with him like this.  It was more important than whatever the press would dig up to say about them.  So much more important than that.  And well, as for putting Tony in danger—at least it worked both ways, and Tony was also a hero, had also signed up for this.  Knew what he was getting himself in for, and how to handle it.  They both did.  That part of it was equal, at least.  He swallowed.

 

“I know I did,” Tony said.  “I know.  But I’m a little bit notorious, Steve.”  He looked up at Steve, then away again, and his mouth was very crooked, very wry and a bit self-deprecating.  “You’ve never dated me before,” he said, his voice very rough.

 

“We’ll get through it,” Steve told him, moving his hand up to card it through his hair, over the back of his head, ruffling it a bit. “Just like we got through this.” They could get through anything, if they faced it together.  He was certain of that.

 

“I guess so,” Tony said unsteadily.

 

“Well, I know,” Steve told him.

 

“But you don’t,” Tony said, with a helpless, twisted little smile, his voice still very hoarse.  “The press . . . with me, it’s.  It’s different.”

 

Steve had seen the way the press went after Tony, that much was true.  And it seemed awful; he’d admit that.  It was just that it’d take a lot more than that to chase him away from Tony.  That was for sure.  Given a preference, maybe he wouldn’t have wanted to deal with it, but it was part of the deal, and Tony was more than worth it.  And it was one of Tony’s headaches, that he’d had to deal with for forever.  Steve could step up to the plate and take some of that burden too.  Steve was strong.  He could handle it.  Even when the going got tough. “I have been around a while, you know,” Steve told him.  “I’d noticed.”

 

“It’s still different, Steve,” Tony said, with a quiet, exasperated sort of smile.  “When it’s turned on you.”

 

“I’ll believe that,” Steve said with rueful self-awareness.  He reached out and touched Tony’s face, just a little brush of his fingers. “But none of that makes a bit of difference, Tony.  You’re still my sweetheart.”

 

Tony turned his face, pressed it down against Steve’s hand, into his fingers.  His skin felt warm, scratchy and soft with stubble, and his smile softened into something more real, but wry and rather faint.  “Okay,” he said, and left a kiss against the base of Steve’s palm. He closed his eyes. “I guess I just wanted to keep you all to myself a little longer,” he said in an even fainter, scratchier voice.

 

Steve smiled a little sadly.  He knew how that felt.  He liked feeling as if Tony was his, and his alone, at times, for the brief moments they shared together.  It was . . . nice, in a lot of ways, to have it be private, just for them. That no one else knew, and they didn’t have to explain anything to anyone, or justify it to anyone but themselves. Of course, the rest of the team knew, now, they couldn’t have kept that secret for long.  But it still felt that way.  Special, just for them.  “I know how you feel,” he said.  “I like having you just to myself, too.”

 

“You have me right now,” Tony murmured, laying another kiss against the base of Steve’s palm and leaning back with one shoulder turned into the couch cushion, turning towards him just a bit, but without opening his eyes.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, fondness welling up in him almost overwhelmingly, all of a sudden.  He let his hand slide along Tony’s jaw, back up into his hair, brush it back. “I do.”

 

“Always,” Tony said, sounding a little muzzy. “Even if . . . if I don’t act like it, Steve.  Honey.” His eyes opened slightly, and his eyes crinkled up with his slight smile.  “Whenever you need me.  I’m all yours.”

 

Steve swallowed.  His throat felt a bit thick.  “All mine, huh?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” Tony said softly.  He closed his eyes again.

 

“Finish your water,” Steve said, rubbing his fingers at the side of Tony’s neck.  “Then we can see about getting settled for the night.”

 

“Sure thing, boss,” Tony murmured fuzzily, and Steve smiled a little, even as Tony sipped the hot water again.

 

“And try and take it easy on your throat,” he told him.

 

Tony opened one eye just to wink at him, then closed both again and sipped a bit more of the water.  Steve ended up skimming the tips of his fingers up and down the back of Tony’s neck as he did.

 

He couldn’t deny that it had been something he’d wanted to hear.  In a strange way, this was what Steve had been wanting, had wanted that morning when he tagged along with Tony.  Some time alone together. Of course, he’d rather have had it come without sexual assault and Tony being tortured. Of course.  But it was nice to think that they were getting at least a little sweet with the bitter.  And Tony was very sweet.  That had surprised Steve, when they’d gotten together.  He supposed he’d expected a bit more edge and attitude, but Tony was all soft intensity and quiet passion, distraction cut with moments of focus and piercing sweetness, eyes fixed on Steve and filled with the kind of feeling Steve had only dreamed of from him.

 

Over a decade, like he’d thought earlier, and Tony was still surprising him.  Steve imagined he always would, and right now, that felt like a good thing. Tony’s eyes were still closed, and he was breathing slowly, like he found Steve’s fingers on the back of his neck soothing, too.  Steve didn’t exactly want to speak and encourage Tony to speak again, so instead he just leaned his head against the back of the couch, too, and looked his fill of him. The light wasn’t too bright, and from this angle that concealed some of the worst of Tony’s bruises and gave him a shadowy, dashing look, like some kind of pirate or outlaw from an old adventure movie, but tired and gracefully, indolently, mysteriously wounded and asleep. He’d put on some weight after getting Extremis, Steve noticed, which was nice to see, the healthy muscle and flesh over his bones, the sturdiness of him despite his injuries, but he still had a lean slenderness to his build that added to that impression for Steve. But he liked seeing his cheeks and shoulders full like that, not drawn tight and weary, thin with stress and grief as he had been up until then.

 

It had been a hard year for all of them. At least, despite his injuries, Tony was looking better now.  Steve wondered, almost shyly, surprised at himself, if their getting together had helped with that at all, or if it was really all Extremis’s doing.  He had a feeling he’d been looking better too, these days. He’d certainly felt better since they’d been together.  Happier, God, yes. But more centered, too, more . . . solid, somehow, stronger.  Even when it came to things like this.  As painful as it had been, Steve didn’t want to think about the kind of mess he might have ended up if they had done this before they’d gotten together. It seemed backwards, but—the threat of losing Tony, before he’d even said anything to him about how he felt, after losing so much else, losing the others, losing the Avengers—Steve would have been desperate.  It would have felt like losing Bucky all over again in some ways.  Just thinking about it had him wanting to pull Tony closer again, further into his arms.  But the back of his neck was comfortingly warm, radiating heat beneath his fingers, and he could feel the sleepy relaxation in Tony’s body when he let his hand rest against his shoulder.

 

Tony finished with the water with one last sip and let his hands sink down into his lap, still folded around the still warm mug, his eyes closed.  Steve let him rest just for a moment, before he pulled the mug out of his hands, kissed Tony’s sleep-soft lips, which had him smiling, if not opening his eyes, and got up to wash out that mug, too and use the bathroom himself.  He did one last check of the cabin, a perimeter without opening the doors to go outside, making sure everything was locked and shifting one large cabinet over just enough to block the other exterior door closed in one of the bedrooms, just in case.  That done, and the windows locked and covered to his satisfaction with curtains and blinds, he returned to the living area and closed that window, too, with one last deep lungful of the sea air, locked it, and pulled the blinds and curtains there, turning off the lights before returning to the couch. He stretched a little, stretching muscles in his arms and back loose, before he slid in next to Tony, carefully opening his arms and pulling Tony in to settle against him, cheek against his shoulder.  He was almost surprised by the way Tony willingly shifted to press in against him, making a soft, pleased noise as Steve curled an arm around his waist.  He seemed half asleep.

 

Steve reached out, pulled the blankets in around Tony, reaching for the pillows and sliding one between his head and the back of the couch, three more behind Steve’s head and his shoulder so that not only was his head pillowed but Tony’s was nestled on softness if he shifted, bringing the blankets up until they pooled around Tony's neck, being certain that more would cover even Tony's long legs, even if he ended up stretching them out. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, letting his own cheek sink into Tony’s hair and taking a deep breath. He did have him. He had him safe now, thanks mostly to Tony’s own efforts, his own heroism, but God.  Everything was fine.  And now Steve would keep watch over him, keep him safe.  He let his hand settle over the back of Tony’s neck again and stroke, gently, not wanting to wake him, so very slowly. Tony sighed and relaxed more heavily into Steve’s hold.  His breath hitched, just a little, then smoothed out.  His body was a blessedly heavy weight in Steve’s arms, and he felt that he had rarely felt him so limp and relaxed.  He had to be utterly exhausted.

 

Steve pressed another kiss into his hair at the top of his head and settled in to keep watch, keeping his eyes half open. He was good at dozing without losing his alertness, a skill he had honed over long nights in Europe and found plenty of occasions to use afterward with the Avengers.  Tony was sleeping deeply and heavily against him, though, the sleep apparently unbroken by dreams or pain, which soothed something deep inside Steve’s chest that had still been aching, just a bit. Tony’s breaths were deep and not quite snoring, just snuffling a bit at times.  Steve was very aware of them, of the rhythm of his heartbeat, as he dozed in the dark room.  He was certain he himself would have nightmares if he slept any more deeply, so this was fine.  This was just perfect. Hearing, feeling, Tony’s warm, even breathing, the beating of his heart reassuring Steve further into that light doze, Tony’s body warm and solid curled up where he fit so perfect against Steve’s body.  They were wrapped up in a little nest of warm blankets and pillows, Steve’s half aware eye on the wood stove as it continued to heat the room, and the warmth relaxed Steve, too, his remaining tension ebbing away.  He could still just barely hear the rhythm of the waves outside.

 

\-----

 

Tony slept deeply the whole night through, with just a moment of something that might have been a nightmare when he tensed against Steve, sucking in his breath and then giving a low whimper, his fingers clenching against Steve’s sweatshirt, twisting in the blankets. Steve managed to get his eyes open and murmur to him, rubbing the back of his neck gently, though it came out slurred and sleepy, and Tony quieted again, turning his face to rest his cheek on Steve’s chest and tucking his head partly in under Steve’s chin before giving a long, slow sigh and dropping off back into that deep, quiet sleep.

 

Steve caught a few hours of deeper sleep toward two or three in the morning, where he caught himself dreaming, vague dreams of running after Tony and calling out to him, only to have Tony walk faster and faster, talking on his cell phone as the underarmor began to slick over his skin, the armor growing up over him from his feet upwards, until finally the face plate slid down over his face and he turned away from Steve as if he couldn’t hear him. Steve forced himself to his top speed, ran and ran, but when he finally caught up to him, Tony sagged down to his knees, the armor falling away to leave him naked, battered and covered in bruises and cuts, bruises swelling his mouth and one eye shut and covered in his own dried blood from the hundreds of gashes covering his body.  Steve slid his arms around him and cradled him, calling to him, but though he was breathing, Tony felt cold and didn’t respond. He kept waking from the dream with a start, his arms tightening reflexively around Tony as he gasped into his hair, then sliding back into it as soon as he relaxed again and his mind fuzzed out into sleep.  Every time, Steve found his heart beating heavily in his chest, himself breathing hard, but Tony’s even breathing, his warmth, the soft scent of his hair and skin, even the medicinal and antiseptic tang of his dressings, the sound of his heartbeat, his weight anchoring Steve to the corner of the couch, would help soothe him again, even if he had to press his face into Tony’s hair before his breathing evened out again.  Eventually, anchored by Tony’s weight, he was able to drowse more peacefully, and his dreams shifted, into curling up with Tony in camp during the war, which didn’t make sense, of course, it was a dream, Bucky teasing him about his boyfriend, how stuck on Tony he was. And well, it was true, he was stuck on Tony.  Steve dozed like that, periodically waking enough to check the stove, look toward the windows, the door, listen for sounds, aware of Tony’s vitals, until the gray light of morning started seeping in between the blinds, the curtains diffusing it into little more than dull, misty glow. 

 

Tony was still breathing warm and steady against Steve’s neck, curled into him.  Steve wondered what time it was, turning his face in to rest against Tony’s hair a bit more and letting himself drift off again.  There was no rush.  Steve didn’t plan to get up until Tony was stirring, at least, so as not to disturb him, and lend him his own body heat, the steadiness of having Steve beside him. And it was nice, lying there next to Tony, letting himself drift on it, soak in his presence there, the way he was curled against him, and just relax.  He curled his arm lightly around Tony’s shoulders and let himself fall back into sleep a bit.  He only half-heard Tony’s exhale of breath, the way he leaned into Steve a little further, fingers curling in against Steve’s cheap new sweatshirt, against his side, and he sleepily curled his arm in around Tony a little more.  Tony sighed again, and his nose and mouth pressed in against Steve’s neck.

 

When Steve woke up again, it was a bit lighter in the room, and the light had more of a golden tinge to it.  Tony was still sleeping curled in close to him, his face against his neck, but his breaths were a bit lighter, faster. Steve blinked sleep out of his own eyes and rubbed his fingers gently against the back of his neck to soothe him. Tony sighed again, relaxed a bit. Steve had wondered if he was waking up, but he seemed to have fallen back asleep for a while longer. He himself sat up a bit, watching the brightening sun as it began to come in past the blinds. Tony breathed softly against him. Steve knew the other man would be in pain when he woke up, and wasn’t in any hurry to bring that about. He stretched his own legs out, though, as best he could, trying not to disturb Tony, and kept watching the sun come up.  He could faintly hear the cries of seagulls and the surf outside, even through the closed windows. The wood stove wasn’t producing much heat now, but the room was still warm.  He flexed his arm, and sure enough, the soreness from the day before was gone.

 

It had been a restless night, very different from the night before, when they’d had, well, plenty of time together, which had led to some pretty athletic lovemaking that made Steve feel a little hot under the collar even now, when he thought of it.  Tony had been exhausted by it enough that he’d slept late, and after his morning run, Steve had come back, watched him for a while, watching him sleep, his chest rising and falling in the bed, until he had to get up to go to a meeting, but, in a way, Steve felt even closer to him now than he had then. And he had thought he’d felt pretty close to him then, after the night they’d had.  But this—this was different somehow.  They’d been through so much, and they’d done it together, and for all the rest of it, he could feel how much of Tony’s trust he had, from the way he lay in his arms, his head heavy on his shoulder. The way he’d been with him all night.

 

He’d still have preferred it never to have happened. But it was something.

 

Eventually, Tony stirred a little, shifting his head against Steve’s shoulder.  He took in a long, soft breath, and it hitched in his throat, then blinked, groaned, his head shifting back, lolling a little on his neck, his eyes still closed. Steve knew he had to hurt all over; his bruises would be worse now, the second day, swollen up, and he’d be stiff and sore.  He settled his hand at the back of Tony’s neck, made certain to steady him, even as Tony’s eyes blinked open a second time.

 

He looked at Steve, eyes blank and unfocused, bleary blue and pale in the dim light beneath his thick dark eyelashes, for another moment, before his mouth—also bruised and more swollen now, the bruises around it even more obvious—quirked to one side in a bit of a smile, one that reached to his eyes, and he said in a hoarse, scratchy, thick voice, “Hey, there, gorgeous.”

 

Steve couldn’t help it, he smiled a little back. “Hey, there, yourself,” he said. He didn’t bother to ask how Tony felt. It was all too obvious that he felt awful.  “Sleep all right?”

 

“Never better,” Tony croaked. His eyes fluttered shut again and he groaned as he tried to move.  “Honestly,” he added, though his voice was ragged.  “I told you, you make a great pillow.”  His smile softened a little, and he looked up at Steve.

 

Steve smiled back at him and let his hand stroke down the back of Tony’s neck before leaning forward just enough to give him a soft, very soft, good morning kiss, barely a brush of his lips against Tony’s. Tony made a soft noise and leaned into it a bit, though his bruised mouth had to be hurting him. Steve pulled away slowly, still stroking the back of his neck and his hair.  Tony smiled wider.

 

“You promised me some coffee,” he croaked out.

 

“I did,” Steve said.  He shifted his arm around Tony’s shoulders, tried to give him some support without hurting him any worse and wasn’t sure how well he did. “Here,” he said, “stretch out your legs.”

 

Tony winced, his face twisting with pain as he obeyed, but he managed it.  Steve helped him straighten them, then waited a bit as Tony’s feet rested against the floor for the blood to return to them, rubbing gently, almost absently, at the back of Tony’s neck as he did.

 

“I’ll be all right, Steve,” Tony said after a moment, with a jaw-cracking yawn, pulling the blankets closer in around him.

 

“It’s always worse the second day,” Steve said quietly, again wishing that he could have somehow spared him this.

 

“Yeah,” Tony said, still yawning, blinking sleep out of his eyes, “and with Extremis, it’ll be better the third.” He looked over at Steve again, and his eyes were still soft, but determined, too.  “I’ll be fine,” he said.  “I can take this.  I’ve been through worse.”

 

“I know,” Steve said, and he did know. It wasn’t that he doubted Tony’s strength.  “It’s not—it’s not that.”

 

Tony’s eyes looked doubtful, though his expression didn’t change.  “I’m going to be all right,” he insisted.

 

Steve nodded.  He didn’t want to insult him, make this a matter of pride. It wasn’t about that. Tony was more than strong enough to handle this.  He had never doubted that, not once.  Even if his body had given out on him, his spirit never would.  Steve knew that.  He believed it. He just—he just hurt for him. He hated seeing him hurt. He wished it had never happened. He wasn’t sure how to say that, so he just kissed Tony’s temple, the side of his head again, and then helped him to his feet.

 

It was a project to get Tony as far as the bathroom, and he was moving slowly enough, and achingly enough, that Steve worried about leaving him to handle things himself, but eventually made himself, to spare Tony’s dignity.  He waited just outside, though, worrying as Tony seemed to take an achingly long time to finish and wash his hands, and was there to catch him as he nearly fell right through the doorway.  “Is everything all right?” he asked him, pulling him into his shoulder, letting Tony rest his face against his shoulder as he gasped for breath, just a bit. “Was there blood?”

 

“No blood,” Tony whispered hoarsely. “I’m just—it’s just—” His face twisted wryly, and he shrugged, tilting his head to look up at Steve, from under his eyelashes again, due to the angle.  “Sore,” he said.

 

Steve knew it, and his chest ached with sympathy. “I bet,” he said, smiling a little unsteadily back.  “Here, sit down, and I’ll get you your coffee.”  He got Tony settled back onto the couch, though it seemed to take Tony twice as long to get there as it had last night, and got him bundled around with blankets again, then got him some more aspirin with a glass of water.  That done and the aspirin taken, Steve got the wood stove started back up, and then went back to the kitchen to cook.  He started Tony’s coffee first, then while it was brewing made him a simple, gentle meal of scrambled eggs with herbs that should go easy on his stomach, using the herbs he’d bought for the chicken the night before. When that was done, he slid it into a bowl, then finished making and mixing the chocolate the same way he’d done before, before adding a half of a cup of the coffee to it and a little more cream. He brought both back to Tony, handed him the eggs, and set the coffee on the table.  “As ordered,” he said with a smile, and Tony smiled back up at him.

 

“Thanks, sweetie,” he said hoarsely. “C’mere.”  When Steve leaned in obligingly, he raised his hand, though it looked painful to move his arm, even more than it had the night before, and grabbed at his sweatshirt to pull him in for a kiss.  It was little more than a brush of their lips together, but it still made Steve smile, made his chest feel tight, made warmth tingle all through him as he pulled away.  Tony smiled back at him, more widely, and turned to reach for his coffee, settling his eggs in his lap.  Steve pulled the table even closer and picked it up to hand it to him, being certain his hands were wrapped around it, before he tousled Tony’s hair and went back to make himself some breakfast, too.

 

When they both had some of that breakfast in them, and Tony was on his second cup of coffee with chocolate, Steve sitting beside him with a cup of coffee of his own, looking out the open window at the shore again, now fully visible in the morning light, the breaking of the waves, the beach, since he’d opened the curtains and the blinds, Tony turned toward him and let his face nestle into his shoulder, cradling his mug against his belly. “How much longer do you think it’ll take them to figure out where we are?” he asked.

 

“Which them?” Steve asked dryly.   Tony gave a slight huff of laughter.

 

“I’ll double check the armor once I’m done with this,” he said, indicating the coffee with a nod of his head. “See if I can get a more direct signal.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Steve said. “You’re hurt—you can just take a rest.”

 

“Mmm,” Tony agreed.  “But I should.  It’s really not that much trouble.”  He looked back up at Steve and smiled a little.  “Besides, I got plenty of sleep.”

 

“Okay,” Steve agreed.  Tony was probably right.  They could only be out of action for so long, and it would be better to get back ahead of whatever Skull might have planned, to make sure this was cleaned up as neatly as they could manage it.  And he wanted Tony to get checked out, as soon as possible, he really did. It was just—that he was enjoying this, in a way, the quiet morning, Tony lying against his shoulder on the couch, watching the waves.  That was stupid, he knew, and probably selfish, after Tony had been tortured and sexually assaulted right in front of him and probably just wanted to get home and put all this behind him, whatever he’d said the night before about it not being so bad. But they didn’t get too many quiet mornings together like this.  It just gave Steve a pang to think of what they’d had to go through to end up with this one. Especially Tony.

 

“Are you all right?” he asked slowly, running his fingers through the back of Tony’s hair.

 

Tony blinked up at him.  “I think I’ve told you a couple times already that I’m just fine, sport,” he said, softly, with wry humor.

 

“Not . . . that,” Steve said, feeling awkward, cold, his tongue too thick in his mouth.  “That creep—Sanderson—he, he touched you.  Humiliated you in front of—well.  And he had a—the way he talked to you, about you, the way he touched you—”

 

“He had a thing for me, you mean,” Tony said, bluntly, and Steve felt himself flush red, stupidly, even though he wasn’t even the one it had happened to.  He stared down into his coffee.

 

“Yeah,” he said, and the words barely left him, they were so soft.  He felt nauseous, his big breakfast lying uneasily in his stomach, thinking about what had happened to Tony while he stood right there, just _let_ him be pawed over.  Tony, his sweetheart, his guy—how could he have let that happen?

 

“Yeah, I know,” Tony said.  “It wasn’t . . . great.  I didn’t want you to have to see that.  But I’m fine, baby.  I really am.”

 

“Me—” Steve choked out.  “He was doing it to you, Tony, not—not me.”

 

“Nah,” Tony said.  “He was doing it to you, too.  To hurt you.  To get at you. Wasn’t he, honey?” And his voice was very serious now, his eyes level and grave.

 

Steve swallowed, found himself nodding his head jerkily.  His mouth felt dry, and his felt it jerking.  His jaw worked. It was true, it had—hurt, seeing that. Seeing someone try to humiliate Tony that way, treat him like that.  With Steve right there—helpless to stop it—he’d rather suffer anything than be helpless like that, he thought.  Anything. “Yeah,” he said again, roughly, after a moment.

 

“But it wasn’t your fault,” Tony said. “It just happens. Hey, he was a creep who liked making me scream for some reason.  It’s got nothing to do with us, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, more determinedly, “yeah.” He looked at Tony, straight on this time. “You believe that, right?” he said. “You’d better.”

 

Tony smiled crookedly.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I do.”

 

“Good,” Steve sighed, and reached out, let his fingers brush along Tony’s temple, down over a few of his bandages. “Because it’s true. It wasn’t your fault, either. You’re not any less because of anything they did to hurt you—you’re so strong.  And beautiful.  And I love you so much.” He thought again about his worries from the night before, that Tony would take Skull's words to heart, that this would dig in and work in his heart alongside his other old insecurities. “You don’t ever listen to them,” he said, “you hear me?”

 

“I hear you,” Tony said, and smiled a little more, even more crookedly, and tremulously, Steve thought.  “Stop it, Steve,” he said, looking down a little, and turning his mug in his hand.  “You’ll make me blush.”

 

“I’d give a lot to see that,” Steve said, and it was true—Tony didn’t blush, not that often.

 

“Ha,” Tony said, and grinned, suddenly. “I bet.”

 

Steve felt abruptly better.  Tony really was all right.  He was sure of it, oddly enough, in that moment.

 

They spent what must have been the better part of another hour there, curled on the couch and leaning on each other, not really talking, just enjoying each other’s warmth and company, before Tony set his empty mug on the table and Steve took the hint to go and drag the bag that still held his armor, as well as Steve’s scale mail shirt, over in front of them. Tony spent another long while tinkering with his armor, while Steve took the opportunity to do another check of the cabin, this time leaving it to check the outside, too, and checking in with Mrs. Jasper at the lodge.  She was all solicitous questions about whether or not Tony was feeling better, and Steve was glad when he felt like he could say honestly, “Yeah, he’s on the mend.”

 

When he came back to the cabin and locked the door behind him, he could see Tony’s head come up, then relax, as he rounded the corner into the living area.  “Managed to get a signal back,” Tony said hoarsely.  “They know we’re here now.”

 

“Good,” Steve said, “good.”  He felt a moment of loss, of this quiet morning, what had almost become a sanctuary for them here, together, but dismissed it.

 

“C’mere,” Tony said, again.

 

“What?” Steve asked.

 

“You were right,” Tony said, and smiled at him. “This feels like a seaside getaway together.  If we have only a few hours left, I want to enjoy them.  With you.”

 

Steve smiled, feeling a sense of warmth suffusing through him from his chest, radiating outward.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Let’s do that.”  He came back around the couch and sat down beside Tony again, who smiled at him.

 

“Love you,” he said, soft and warm and quiet.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, feeling his own heart full and warm, his breath in his throat.  “Love you too.”

 

Tony closed his eyes, let his head tip forward to rest against the side of Steve’s, forehead against his. “This has been great,” he said, voice still hoarse, and smiled a little.  “Next time we’ll get the trip without the, you know, being captured and tortured.”

 

“I’d like that,” Steve whispered, reaching up to rub his thumb along the side of Tony’s face.

 

“We will,” Tony said.  He leaned forward until his lips just brushed the side of Steve’s face, along his jaw.  “I’m going to be fine,” he said again.  “Don’t worry so much.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, on a thick, rueful laugh. He tilted his head, reached up to set his thumb under Tony’s chin and tip their lips together again. Tony made a pleased, eager sound and leaned into the kiss, though Steve was careful to keep it soft, very aware of the swelling under his lips, the cracks and bruises around Tony’s mouth, the broken place on one side of it.  It still felt good, and it drew out into long moments, Tony’s soft, warm breath against his lips and quiet eagerness leading to constant pressure against his lips, their mouths never quite leaving each other.  “You’ll be okay,” Steve said, feeling a little lightheaded, breathless, though there was no real logical reason for it, as he pulled back, brushing his thumb along Tony’s jaw as he did.

 

Tony smiled back at him as he did. “You bet,” he said, hoarsely. His eyes turned more serious. “Will you?” he asked.

 

“I think I will,” Steve said, and surprised himself with his honesty.

 

Tony smiled, his eyes softening with it. “Good,” he said. “Good.”

 

They stayed there, on the couch, wrapped up in each other, Steve’s fingers wandering slowly through the curls coaxed out in Tony’s hair by the humidity of the sea air, the way it curled against his fingers. Tony’s eyes slipped half closed, and he breathed slowly and easily.  They didn’t talk much, Steve thinking of Tony’s bruised, swollen throat, but it was enough as it was.

 

The other Avengers brought enough talk with them anyway, when they showed up, though that was mostly Peter. Logan grunted and shook his head upon seeing Tony, offering a gruff, “You all right, Stark?”  Jessica just looked uncomfortable, but concerned. Luke was all for going out to the warehouse where the Skull had been hiding out and checking it over, but Steve and the others managed to talk him down from it.  Steve had to admit it was good to see them, especially as he helped Tony to his feet and the others picked up the bags they had brought with them, Tony obviously clenching his jaw and trying not to groan, leaning heavily on Steve.  He got Tony settled in the Quinjet they’d brought before going back to work things out with Mrs. Jasper.  He was expecting the full Captain America treatment, and while he understood some of it, she also seemed to have taken an oddly proprietary attitude toward him and Tony, and mostly just sent him off with a, “And you take care now, son.” Steve was left bemused as he slid onto the seat beside Tony and settled his arm around him, making certain his shoulder was under Tony’s head.

 

“She likes you,” Tony said, letting his head rest again there and closing his eyes.

 

“Yeah, I think so,” Steve said, still bemused.

 

“Most people do,” Tony said, smiling, without opening his eyes.  “You’re likable.”

 

It still felt unusual, though, Steve thought. After people realized he was Captain America, their attitudes usually changed, at least a little more. “I think she thought it was romantic,” he said, and then blushed.

 

Tony chuckled.  “Figured that part out, huh?” he said.

 

“Are you okay with that?” Steve asked.

 

“Long as you are,” Tony said. “So, I guess now we find out if anyone other than us can fly one of these things on this team.”

 

“They got it here,” Steve said. “It can’t be that bad.”

 

“We’ll see,” Tony said again.

 

Tony made a fuss over every little dip and wobble in the air, in the end, but the flight was smooth even for Steve’s taste, even worrying about Tony’s injuries through it.  They left Luke and Logan on the ground, to check out Skull’s facility after all.  Luke seemed eager, and Steve wanted their own team to go over it before SHIELD got a chance.

 

SHIELD was less pleasant to deal with. It was hard for Steve to trust the new leadership, and he found Hill grating and cold.  Her attitude toward Tony’s injuries had him grinding his teeth. But he got through the interview without losing his temper, which he counted as a victory, and SHIELD agreed to look into matters in Ocean View, though Steve wasn't sure how well he trusted them to do it.  He’d have to double check on their work, he decided, to make certain.  But that was a matter for later.  Right then, he was going to see Tony.

 

Tony had gone willingly enough to SHIELD medical, though he’d rolled his eyes and smiled wryly at Steve while he did, which Steve had been glad to see.  Steve found him propped up in bed, already looking more energetic, though a bit glazed. It was easier to find the reason when Tony turned toward him as he came in and Steve recognized the slow muzziness that came with heavy duty painkillers.

 

He knew Tony must have hated that, but he was selfishly glad of it.  He had hated seeing Tony so obviously in pain, and the aspirin would have hardly done anything but taken the edge off.  He knew Tony didn’t like pain killers like that, but . . . at least this way he could be comfortable.  Extremis would probably burn them off more quickly anyway.  He just hoped it didn’t remind Tony at all of the way he’d felt when Skull had drugged him.  But it should have the exact opposite effect.

 

He came in and pulled the small padded stool in the room forward, sitting down by Tony’s bedside and reaching out to take his hand. Tony smiled a bit more at that. “No signs of battle,” he said, squeezing Steve’s hand a bit with his, though lightly.  “So I’m going to assume Hill’s still alive.”

 

“It went fine,” Steve said, but he couldn’t help sighing a little.  Was his animosity really that obvious?

 

“You look like a thundercloud,” Tony said, but he was still smiling with that loose easiness.  “Everything sorted out for now?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said.  “Close enough to it, at least.”  There was plenty more to look into cleaning up later—like how the Skull had discovered their relationship, and the electronics he’d stolen, that he hadn’t divulged to SHIELD.  That was Avengers business, and Tony could look into them. Later.

 

“Good,” Tony said, “good.”  A form of tension went out of his already pain killer softened features, and Steve realized he’d been on alert, knowing that Steve had to be tense for his meeting with SHIELD.  Tony had always been good at picking up on things like that, Steve thought. He reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers against Tony’s cheek.

 

“Well,” he said.  “I’m going to take you home.”

 

Tony smiled, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Sounds good, honeymuffin,” he said. “Take me home.”

 

Steve didn’t realize until later, when he was getting Tony settled in their bed, that he’d called the Tower home. He hadn’t even thought about it, even though in his head, he’d still been thinking the Tower would never be the same kind of home the Mansion had been, as much as he did like it, and was so grateful to Tony for offering it to them.

 

He figured maybe home was wherever Tony was for him, right now.  Tony and the team.

 

Tony sighed as Steve slid a pillow under his head, making certain he was stable lying on his side, with plenty of pillows against his back to prop him up.  Steve reached up, brushed his hair back from his face, and held his hand gently to the side of it, along his cheek, against his jaw.  Tony gave a slow breath and his eyes slid closed. “You get some rest,” Steve told him, and Tony nodded, slowly, in that slow, sleepy way the drugs had given him.

 

“Yessir,” he slurred, soft and heavy. “Are . . . are you gonna be around?” He raised his head, just a little, as if to look up at Steve, and his eyes opened to tired blue slits, barely visible under his heavy eyelashes.

 

Steve had been thinking that he should suit up, go out again, put some work in to be certain that Skull was tracked down and dealt with.  But Luke and Logan were still in the field, and he could stay here to coordinate with SHIELD’s operations and receive their reports.  It was just . . . restlessness, making him want to move, be up and doing, not necessity, and he knew it.  Tony wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t blame him, if he wanted to go out, to be in the field, he knew that, but suddenly his heart rebelled at the idea of leaving him alone here, even if Tony was just going to be sleeping.  He knew this would happen again, that Tony would get hurt, or he would; it was part of their lives.  But this was the first time this had happened since they’d been together, and it—it wasn’t just being hurt, this time, it was being tortured, too.  Because they were together.  Because they liked men.  It was so . . . personal.  Steve’s stomach still hurt, thinking of it.

 

But maybe Tony wanted some time to himself. He did, sometimes, when he was hurt, or upset.  Steve sometimes thought of it as wanting to lick his wounds in private, like an injured cat would hide itself away rather than let anyone know, and either die or come back healed. But maybe he needed that, the time alone, to recuperate.  God knew sometimes Steve wanted to be alone when he was feeling weak, or low, off his pins somehow.

 

Tony had always been the one to come to him when he was like that, though, and slowly but surely coax him out of it. Or try to, at least, talk him into seeing things from a different perspective again, no matter how rough a tone he had to take with him.  Sometimes Tony got aggressive about it, but more often he was just persistent, showing that softer side, that softer touch, that Steve always felt so privileged to get to see from him. “Do you want me around?” he asked, keeping his voice low, gently stroking his thumb along Tony’s cheek.

 

Tony looked down, bit at his bottom lip, the side of his cheek, lashes dark over his eyes.  “I,” he said, soft and rough, “either way,” but Steve already knew what the real answer was.  Tony had a few surefire tells.

 

“I thought I’d stick around here,” he said. “Mind some company in your bed, baby?”

 

Tony smiled a little, lashes flickering. “Really?” he mumbled. “You sure?”

 

“Absolutely sure,” Steve told him.

 

“I’d love it,” Tony said, in an even lower mumble. He pressed the side of his face further into the pillows and closed his eyes, biting his bottom lip again.

 

“I’ll be right there,” Steve said, stroking his hand through the hair over the back of Tony’s head before he patted his newly bandaged shoulder through the soft t-shirt he was wearing now and pulled back. He tugged off his boots and socks and got himself changed into his own pajama pants that he’d left in Tony’s room and a t-shirt of his own, put a few of their things away, then turned back the covers of the bed and climbed in next to Tony, trying not to jostle the bed too much as he did. 

 

Tony made a soft noise and raised his head a little, looking for Steve, heavy eyes half open, and Steve shifted closer, put out an arm and curled it around him.  Working together, it was only a moment before Tony was lying curled against him, cheek against his stomach.  Steve shifted the pillows to be sure Tony was entirely propped up, straightening the blankets over them both, and sliding another pillow in beneath Tony’s head and neck where it wasn’t resting on Steve. 

 

“Comfy?” he asked, running his fingers through Tony’s hair.

 

“Mmm,” Tony said.  His eyes closed again.  “Thank you, Steve,” he breathed.

 

“Of course,” Steve said, still stroking his hair. “Happy to.”  He smiled a little.  “Nowhere else I’d rather be,” he admitted, “you know that.”

 

Tony smiled a little at that, not opening his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, still in that soft, vague sort of voice.  “Me too.”

 

Steve could tell that Tony was barely awake, so it didn’t surprise him when he felt his body going limp with sleep on top of him only a few moments later.  His mouth slid open on a quiet breath, and then he was obviously deeply asleep. This time, though, he didn’t seem to sleep quite as soundly—he made quiet sounds as he slept, twitched and shifted, breathing going unsteady and quick.  Steve would stroke his hair, murmur to him, and eventually he would calm, his distressed breathing evening out again. Steve wasn’t surprised, really, after the trauma they’d been through.  Even without the fresh distress of the nasty little episode, for a man with Tony’s history, it would bring up bad memories.  It did for all of them, Steve thought, but Tony, well, he’d been a civilian. Still was, in some ways. In others, now, he was as much a soldier as the rest of them.  But that had been a trial by fire, paring him down and tempering him into the man he’d become, the man he was now.  That left its scars.  Besides, drugged sleep was never as good.

 

Steve was glad he’d stayed, to watch over his sleep, to be with him while he was vulnerable. At one point Tony whimpered, shaking, and buried his face in Steve’s stomach, fingers twisted into the fabric of Steve’s shirt and his breath coming harsh and quick and heavy. Steve’s chest ached, but he rubbed the back of Tony’s head, murmured to him again, soothingly. Tony began to relax, his fingers loosening.  “That’s it,” Steve nearly whispered.  “That’s it.”

 

Tony didn’t like drugs, either, Steve knew that. They made him uncomfortable, made him feel like he was drunk, he’d said to Steve once.  And more than that, Steve suspected sometimes, Tony was wary of that feeling of floating, of freedom from pain or worry, because that was why he’d sought the alcohol in the first place.  And from other things he’d said, Steve thought, he feared another addiction.  But he needed the rest, and he’d have been hurting all over without them.  It was worth it.  But still, God, poor Tony.  Just another form of suffering, rather than something that could help him relax. Steve scratched his fingers lightly along his scalp, avoiding the healing wounds, and Tony sighed out in his sleep, went a little more limp.  There, that was good. He could feel it as Tony turned toward him, settling in toward Steve’s body a little more, and didn’t stop him. Tony knew how much pressure he wanted on his healing injuries, and where; unconscious as he was, if he were uncomfortable, he’d shift away from it.  He kept stroking his hair, and Tony relaxed a little more against him, letting out a deep, quiet sigh.

 

Eventually, Steve fell asleep there, too, and this time just let himself drift off.  There was no need for him to keep watch, not in the Tower.  He set his hand on the back of Tony’s head and let himself fall into the quiet darkness of sleep when it came for him.  He didn’t remember his dreams, just a feeling of sunlight and warmth, and Tony’s presence.

 

He slept a surprisingly long time. When he woke up, it was evening, and he felt disoriented.  He was almost alarmed, before he saw Tony smiling up at him, still resting against his side, though propped more against his shoulder now.  “Hi,” he said.

 

Steve blinked, worked his jaw, his head only slowly clearing.  “What time is it?” he asked.  “I must have slept a while.”

 

“It’s 7 pm,” Tony said, and leaned up, kissed the hinge of Steve’s jaw, breath soft and warm against the sensitive skin. “You needed the sleep.”

 

“I guess I did,” Steve allowed. “How are you doing?”

 

“Sore,” Tony said, but he sounded cheerful. “All right, other than that. This is nice, too. Sleeping in our own bed.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, and smiled. It was.  It really was.

 

They spent the next couple of days taking it easy. Tony was frustrated that Extremis was slow to recover from whatever the serum had done to him, the effects on that part of his system lingering long past the other physical effects. Steve had a feeling it was because Tony had tried to use it again before it was ready, during their escape, but he was just relieved that it hadn’t been more serious—the worst of it was that Tony spent a few days not able to keep much solid food other than small pieces or gentle invalid food down, and the smell of anything strong, like Luke’s Reuben sandwich one morning, made him nauseous enough to throw up.  There was no sign of the Skull, despite their best efforts to find him, but SHIELD still had their hands full combing through the wreckage of his operation left in the warehouse.  Steve did go out one day to look through it with them and supervise the search, but despite his distrust of SHIELD they seemed to be handling it the way he would have called it. Tony welcomed him home with a kiss and a mug of hot cider, which he laughingly said was a substitute for how he’d _really_ have liked to welcome him back.  Steve told him he was supposed to be taking it easy—though he admitted he had guiltily thought of sex a few times, but Tony wasn’t up to it, his whole body still battered, throat and genitals too sore for him to even be really interested—and not to worry about that.

 

“Hey, I miss it, too,” Tony said, but jauntily enough, and kissed Steve again.  His attitude was back in force, in the way Steve loved.  He caught Tony by his belt loops and pulled him back into the kiss when he started to pull away, and Tony laughed against his mouth.

 

Yes, they were going to be fine. They both still slept uneasily, some nights, and maybe they’d been sleeping curled up a little closer than normal since, but other than Steve’s continuing uneasiness at how Skull had known to go after them and got them on their own, cutting them off so neatly, which he thought bothered Tony, too, things were just fine.  No one had said anything to the press, either, so far as Steve knew.  No story broke, and he and Tony were left alone.  They felt even a little closer than they had before, Steve thought, at times, watching Tony as he worked through his finances, every little twitch of his eyes and lips. His face was so expressive, when you knew how to look.  Right then he was frustrated, but not seriously annoyed.

 

Steve had known he was serious about him from the beginning.  That wasn’t news to him. But how he was feeling now—it was more than that, less uncertain than he had felt at first, not sure how Tony would respond, not sure how things would go between them. They’d always had their ups and downs. And he’d known Tony—cared, about him, but he hadn’t been sure how serious he was, how he was approaching this. Tony wasn’t always so easy for him to read.

 

But things felt different, now. When Tony looked up, smiled at him, Steve could see the soft light in his eyes, the way his whole face softened and opened up.  He wasn’t sure if Tony was more relaxed with him, showing him more, or if he himself was simply seeing more clearly, but he was certain of it now, deep down inside, in his gut. Whatever else, Tony loved him. It was heady, almost dizzying, to think about, and he almost couldn’t believe it.  But he had seen it in him, along with his breathtaking trust, his faith in Steve, along with his courage, and everything else he’d had when it came down to it.  The rest of it hadn’t surprised Steve—he’d known Tony was incredible, brave, heroic, wonderful, irrepressible, all along.  But that realization still had him reeling, and feeling warm down to his bones.

 

So in the end, whatever the Skull had tried to do to Steve, whatever he’d tried to take from him, all he’d done was given Steve this, something he might have taken who knew how long to see otherwise. God knew Steve could be a little dense when it came to things like that—Steve sure knew it.

 

“Twenty dollars for your thoughts,” Tony said, mouth quirking a little as he looked across at Steve, his eyes still soft.

 

“It’s supposed to be a penny,” Steve said, feeling himself smile back without even thinking about it.

 

“Inflation,” Tony said.  “Besides, if I want to overpay, that’s my business. Your thoughts are worth at least twenty dollars, Steve, don't sell them short.”

 

He was grinning, his eyes bright and mischievous. “Tony,” Steve said, smiling even wider, “you’re being ridiculous.”

 

“Excuse me,” Tony said, “I think I’m the businessman here; I know what I’m talking about.”

 

“Well,” Steve pointed out, “you might be biased.”

 

“True,” Tony said.  “In fact, I’d say I definitely am.”  There was a warm look on his face, and a teasing smile in the crook of his mouth.

 

Steve laughed, and that made Tony chuckle, too, a delighted light in his eyes, before he went back to his papers.

 

Steve felt so ridiculously lucky. To be with him, to be the one who put that delighted look on Tony’s face, just because he’d made him smile. “I might be a little biased, too,” he said.

 

“Oh, yeah?” Tony asked.  “The great Captain America, what would people say?”

 

Steve leaned up and over the table, left a kiss on his mouth.  “That he got lucky,” he said.

 

Tony’s smile was soft, warm, honest and a little tremulous.  “Oh, yeah?” he said.

 

“Oh, yeah,” Steve told him.

 

\-----

 

Steve told Tony about the electronics he’d taken when it seemed less like he was trying not to wince with every step, and he wasn’t frowning over Extremis whenever he tried to use it. He knew Tony was good, but he wasn’t expecting any results from it for a while.  Tony was still healing, and, well, he had a lot of work to do, even apart from the team.  Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever realized how hard Tony worked to keep his company running until they’d been together.  Rather naively, he supposed, he’d thought that he had other people to do most of the day to day running of the business.  So Tony had more than enough to do without adding that on, along with being Iron Man and playing catch-up in both arenas from the time they’d take while his injuries healed.  But it wasn’t even a week later when Tony let him know that he had something he thought he should see.

 

There was something serious in Tony’s voice when he’d said it that put the hackles up on the back of Steve’s neck, an old, instinctive reaction that had still saved him plenty of times during the war. And since.  He was a little worried when he went down to Tony’s workshop earlier that day—but if it had been urgent, Tony would have told him, he knew that.

 

He found Tony with his back to him, standing and typing, frowning, with a serious look on his face.  Steve hung back a moment, then knocked on the wall to announce his presence.  Tony looked up and back at him, and smiled, but there was something a little tight, strained and distracted in his face, and it tightened up still further upon seeing Steve.  “What’s up?” Steve asked.

 

“I’m not sure,” Tony said.  “I’ve been analyzing those files you brought me, and I’ve mostly cracked it, I think.  Most of it’s just references to plans it’ll take a while to track down. Some stuff about the serum. There are a few references to an Aleksander Lukin—I know that name.  CEO of Kronas.  I’m not sure yet if Skull was working with him, or planning some sort of attack on him, or both, but I’ll try to track it down.”

 

“That’s good work, Tony,” Steve said, surprised. He hadn’t expected that they’d get something so usable off the sorts of files he’d grabbed out of the medical lab. “That’s a lot more than we knew before.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Tony made a face, a bit impatient, still tight.  “I don’t know. It’s strange.  There’s some weird correspondence with this Lukin guy. He sent over some medical files. They’re.  Uh, they’re weird.”

 

“Weird like how?” Steve asked, feeling his adrenaline spike up.  “Is it about the serum?” His fingers itched for his shield. If Skull was really fooling around with that again, planning to mass produce it, maybe—they’d have to stop him, that was all there was to it.

 

“Uh,” Tony said.  “No.  Not the serum.” He frowned.  “I don’t even know why Lukin would be screwing around with files like that,” he said.  “Kronas doesn’t do cryo.  And—”

 

“What?” Steve asked.  There was something wrong, he could feel it, and the way Tony was talking around the point was winding him up tighter and tighter, adrenaline and anxiety pooling together in his gut.  “Tony, what is it?  Get to the point.”

 

“Your partner, Barnes,” Tony said. “What was his birthdate?”

 

“Tony, that isn’t funny,” Steve said, his throat tightening up.  “Bucky is dead.”

 

“I’m asking for a reason,” Tony said. His jaw was tight, as tight as Steve’s throat felt.  Steve looked at him for a long moment, then let out his breath.

 

Tony was right, he deserved better than that from Steve.  “1925,” Steve said. “March 20th.”

 

Tony picked out a printout and shoved it into Steve’s hand. “So this is really weird,” he said, “and it doesn’t make any sense, but.”

 

Steve looked down at the paper. It was a series of notes about someone referred to by a codename in Russian.  The—he squinted at the Cyrillic characters. The Soldier?  The Winter Soldier.  The Skull was dubious that it was really him, apparently, and this had been included with a photo as proof.  It was highly technical, but Tony had circled certain details.  Height, five feet nine inches.  Weight, 118 kilograms minus the arm?  What the hell?  Something about a bionic arm.  Birthdate, March 20th, 1925, birthplace, Indiana.  Brown hair.  Brown eyes. The rest of it was details about cryogenic suspension and vital signs.  “This photo they’re talking about—” Steve said.

 

Tony wordlessly handed him another piece of paper. It was dull, and hard to make out. A strange sort of tank, with metal around it.  He could barely see that there was a person inside, naked, male, heavily muscled, the pale outline of a face, long hair falling around it, to his shoulders.  The man was in his twenties, Steve thought. “When was this photo taken?” he asked.

 

“A year ago,” Tony said.

 

“Then it can’t be Bucky,” Steve said. “He—he was nineteen when he died.” He swallowed hard.

 

Tony crossed his arms across his chest. “Steve, how old is Natasha?” he asked.

 

“It’s not polite to ask—” Steve started.

 

“The files mention the Red Room,” Tony said. “The subject they’re referring to is cryogenically frozen.  It’s not impossible.”  His eyes softened. “You’re also pretty well preserved yourself, old timer,” he said, more gently, with a certain fond humor in his tone.

 

“It could be another fake, like Jack Monroe,” Steve said.

 

“Yeah, it could be,” Tony said. “I’m just interested to know why the Skull’s interested.”  His eyes darkened. “I can’t think of a worse way to hurt you, for one thing.”

 

It couldn’t really be him, Steve told himself. Bucky was dead.

 

“This is all incidental chatter, though,” Tony said, going on.  “It looks like they’re discussing the sale of another item.  I think the Skull brought this guy up as a negotiation technique. Muddy the waters on what he’s really after.  Whatever it is, the Skull isn’t giving up on it.  He must want it, and bad.  I don’t know if he has something on Lukin or if Lukin’s the kind of person who makes business deals with super villains, but either way, I don’t like the idea of secret Soviet artifacts the Red Skull is panting after.  And they’re pretty closed mouthed about that, too.  I think Skull was running this data past his scientists to see if it was legit.  He might be trying to get a feel for whether Lukin’s trying to get one over on him by bringing this guy into it.”

 

Steve didn’t like the sound of that, either. “Yeah,” he said, and nodded. “We have to look into it.” He looked up at Tony.

 

Tony braced his hands on the table behind him and looked back at him.  “Yeah,” he said, his voice soft.  “Okay.”

 

Steve met his gaze a while longer, then nodded. He looked back at the photo again and felt his throat close up.  The man’s nose—his chin—

 

It couldn’t be Bucky.  It was just a coincidence.  Or some poor kid they were going to try to pass off as him again. But he didn’t like the sound of that codename.  The Winter Soldier.

 

Yeah.  They’d have to look into it.


End file.
